Future's Present
by alilit72
Summary: Sequel to "Future's Past". After their rescue from time-warp, life continued in the present for Will Riker and Natasha Yar aboard the USS Enterprise. Sticks to canon, with extra twists. Two years in the making, now complete. Please R & R!
1. Chapter 1

_After their time-warp trek to the past, life has gone on in the present for Will Riker and Natasha Yar aboard the USS Enterprise. Their journey has only begun. _

_This is a sequel to a series I wrote, entitled "Future's Past", and picks up several days after. Our main characters returned just before "Angel One" during Season One. The story goes from there and aside from some sidebar deviations, sticks to canon. Fair warning. Enough said._

_I greatly appreciate the reviews for Future's Past, and for your encouragement to write this sequel.  
_

_Ali_

* * *

**Future's Present, Chapter 1**

* * *

**Commander William Riker's personal log, Stardate 41242.5**

_Actually, it's 2364. I got used to the Gregorian calendar. _

_Even after one week, I'm still struck by the deja-vu feeling of being aboard a starship again after so much time away, marooned in the past for nearly two years of my life. My feet were firmly on the ground, then. Now, they tread on elevated floor panels that vibrate from the combined forces of engines, inertia and artificial gravity. _

_When I began traveling in space years ago, I hadn't noticed that slight oscillation. I was too excited, too overwhelmed by the enormity of being off-planet. I envied Captain Jean-Luc Picard's ability to sense when something was "off" in the supposedly imperceptible ship-wide vibration. _

_I figured that as time went on, I'd gain that ability, but it took an absence from space for that to happen. Now I absolutely notice the starship vibrations, so different from trudging across cold concrete laid four centuries ago. It's slightly unnerving. I feel as if any change in motion might send me flying through the Ten Forward windows, or even into the bridge's view screen. _

_Counselor Deanna Troi has reassured me that it's normal; given the time I'd spent with my feet firmly atop an orbiting ground. This isn't just about terra firma, but also the artificial gravity aboard a starship. On Earth, it's not apparent. But on a starship, I have a sensation that I'm being pulled back toward the floor, constantly. Even my arms move differently. I hadn't noticed it, before._

_Lt. Natasha Yar is standing behind me, scowling at something on her tactical console. Before our adventures in the past, I would have asked her what was wrong. But after living through our own version of War and Peace, we communicate without saying a word. And she has the same problem I have: She's re-acclimating, dealing with the same, sensory overload but working through it by staying busy. _

_Deanna tells me that Tasha is a bit agitated but handling things well, under the circumstances. Tasha won't admit the agitated part, especially in front of anyone else aboard the Enterprise. "There's no point in making an issue out of something that others wouldn't understand. They won't get it," she'd said two days after we returned. _

_She's been downplaying her discomfort, even to me. I promptly called bullshit. I do understand. "Let's not go backward and wind up distancing each other, again," I'd said, and she'd nodded. Neither of us wanted to go back to that._

_At least I know that she's got my back, literally. I've refrained from glancing backward over the tactical console at her. Regardless of our separate reports and Deanna Troi's veracity confirmation that Tasha and I did not have a romantic relationship while we were stranded in the 21st century, I suspect the Enterprise crew wonders about us. We're tight. There's a hard-forged bond of friendship and camaraderie that I imagine always will be there. We'd abandoned chain of command on Earth and now it's back in place, but it seems like she's having an easier time with resumption of protocol than I have. I'm still trying to revert back to saying "lieutenant' when I speak with Tasha, trying not to address her by her first name. _

_At the same time, Deanna and I are moving back into a strictly professional relationship. She was part of the away team that traveled through time to rescue us from our past-bound existence. We'd revisited our own, passionate past before we returned to our own time. Tasha was elated about this. She's been giddy about it, acting like a sister who has set her brother up on a date with her best friend. And I can tell its troubling Tasha that things have cooled off again between Deanna and I._

_Deanna hasn't exactly been avoiding me. But we had to put a stop to it, which is actually easier the second time around, and less painful for her since I didn't "up and leave her," as Tasha so eloquently put it when finally told her why Deanna and I had split up so many years ago. _

_I'm glad to see how much more relaxed Tasha has become. She seems more at peace than I'd ever known her to be, before. I think my practical joking nature has rubbed off on her. I still wonder, even after four days of forced formality and military order, whether Tasha might wad something up and playfully hurl it at the back of my head. Her tactical post would be perfect for joking, drop shots on the First Officer. And, well . . . it would be an easy shot. _

_But only in our former life. Now, duty calls._

* * *

**On the bridge of the **_**USS Enterprise**_

"—believe you still haven't joined the poker league," Lt. Geordi LaForge said. Lt. Yar had moved from her tactical comm post and now was standing beside the helm console, validating the console's internal clock. Although the entire system functioned as a computerized unit, each station had a backup, internal clock. The internal clock on the helm was off by 0.006 second, so LaForge began the recalibration procedure.

Tasha shook her head, focused mostly on the recalibration but also answering Geordi's question about participating in poker matches that Will Riker had organized. The first match would be tonight, and most of the senior staff would be there. Captain Picard had opted out because he didn't feel it would be appropriate. Tasha had opted out because she knew better.

"So, why not?" Geordi asked. It wasn't like Natasha Yar to turn down any competitive opportunity.

"It wouldn't be the best idea," she replied. "I'm a lousy poker player, and I lived with Will Riker for 20 months. He knows me too well. I would fold within minutes and lose everything."

"There's nothing on the line but your pride."

"This is very much a pride thing."

"So . . . how about swallowing your pride so Dr. Crusher and I won't go down in flames by ourselves?"

"Really, you'll do better without me," she said. "Besides, I've still got reviews to catch up."

_And I need to catch up on nearly everything else,_ she thought.

* * *

Lt. Yar had worked hard to segue back to her duties after being stranded in a different century. Although she was eager to return to her regular existence as security chief of the _USS Enterprise_, she didn't want her hair to be that short, again. Yesterday, she was finally able to get a decent haircut, though it still was at least an inch longer than it had been before she and Will Riker were catapulted to the past by a spate-time anomaly.

The _Enterprise_ had been passing through the Abyat sector, and anomalous energies within the sector had not played well with energies of the ship passing through it. Will Riker and Tasha Yar, who had been walking through an access corridor immediately adjacent to one of the ship's holodecks, were snagged by a time warp. One second they were aboard the warm and dry _USS Enterprise_, and the next they were sitting on a concrete sidewalk in the cold rain. At first believing they were trapped in a simulation or even the victims of a bad joke, the officers fumbled their way through their first days stranded in what turned out to be the early 21st century.

They were rescued more than 20 months later, thanks to an idea from fellow stranded travelers. In 2362, three crewmembers had disappeared from the _USS Cheyenne_ as it warped through the same sector. Their disappearance was not noticed for more than two hours, after the ship had long since left Abyat. They were listed as missing in action. The stranded _Cheyenne_ crew barely knew each other's last names before finding themselves snatched from their ship as they happened to pass through the same corridor, also adjacent to a Holodeck.

Gary Tobin, Kimothy Chandler and Gavin Machias were deposited together on a boggy crook in the Mississippi River in the year 1999. They eventually moved to Kansas City, then Machias left for somewhat more familiar territory near his family's home in Canada.

Faced with no other choice but to acclimate to their new surroundings, they got odd jobs to survive and eventually Tobin became an assistant manager at a bar and grille in Kansas City. He and Kim married and had two daughters, but still attempted to find a way back "home". It had been Gary's idea to place a classified ad in the newspaper, hoping that some history buff in the 24th century might see the ad and send a probe back to contact them, but the only contacts they received were from people who "weren't playing with a full deck," as Gary later put it. So they resolved to make the best of their situation, saving their money and planning where they would go when politics and war would make living in the cities too dangerous.

One morning about eight years after he was stranded in the past, Gary Tobin stopped to assist a young woman who had been mugged on the sidewalk near the bar where he worked. But the assailant had chosen his target poorly, and was easily overpowered by her. Tobin was impressed by her nonchalant toughness and offered her a job as a waitress and bouncer. She gladly took it. The woman was Natasha Yar, who was barely two weeks into a confusing, new existence in the past. She and Will Riker had been living on the streets and in homeless shelters until they could figure out what to do, next.

Neither the Tobins or the _Enterprise_ officers knew of their 24th century connection until more than a year later, when a series of happenstances led to Will Riker having his blood drawn one morning at the lab where Kim Tobin worked. A microbiology technician, she spotted the protein marker indicating that for Will had been vaccinated against the human immunodeficiency virus—even though the vaccine didn't exist yet in the century where they lived. She confronted Will with good news on both fronts, and renewed hope that there might be away "back home," as Kim put it.

Both _Enterprise_ officers liked the Tobin's idea of a newspaper-based alert to snag the attention of anyone who might be looking for them. This time, there was. The _Enterprise's _Lt. Louden Kendall had run a historical documents search for the missing _Enterprise_ senior staffers, and found the classified, newspaper advertisement they had placed in a last-ditch effort for rescue.

Thanks to an orbital debris-strike and subsequent repairs, the rescue mission took an additional two weeks, and the _Enterprise_ shuttle didn't return to the 24th century with everyone they'd hoped to retrieve. Gavin Machias chose to stay in New Brunswick with his wife and son.

In the wake of both incidents, the Abyat sector had been placed on quarantine by the Federation, and was being researched by a vessel that did not utilize time-based simulation programs or equipment. It was determined that the _Cheyenne_'s officers had been sent back in time thanks to a program that was standard aboard research vessels. The holodeck simulations were used to help educate geologists across the Federation about the unique, New Madrid fault system on Earth. In the _Enterprise_'s case, Will Riker and Natasha Yar landed in Kansas City thanks to a series of history-based programs that Lt. Kendall had written to help instruct secondary-level history students about life in the past. Kendall, whose family had lived in the Kansas City area for generations, was familiar enough with the city's history that he felt comfortable basing the programs there.

Thanks to the Abyat abnormality, Will Riker and Natasha Yar wound up living in Kansas City, at the dawn of the 21st century, for more than 20 months. The Tobins and Gavin Machias had been stranded for a decade. Now that four of those five stranded officers were back in their own time, there was an initial struggle to re-acclimate. The Tobins had two daughters who had transitioned into 24th century life without much difficulty.

It was the adults who felt like their worlds were spinning.

"Getting back to normal?" Geordi LaForge had quipped, friendly and open as always, when Tasha arrived at his side to check the helm's chronometer, again.

"Still a bit rough around the edges, but I'm getting there," she'd smiled back, trying to be genuine even if her insides felt ripped asunder with time vertigo. The artificial gravity had thrown off her timing when she began working out, again, and she'd messed up her shoulder as a result. She kept meaning to go into sickbay because it was swollen again, this morning.

She wanted to call Gary and Kim Tobin on subspace, to see how they were doing. The family should have arrived in San Francisco, by now, for reassignment.

"How's the console chronometer?" Tasha asked, hoping that duty would distract her.

"Trailing by 0.006 of a second," Geordi replied. "I'm running the calibration, again. It may need to be replaced next time we reach a Federation supply starbase."

"That's a bit concerning, that a new chronometer would have issues so soon," Tasha remarked.

"Guess they don't make 'em like they used to," Geordi said, and Tasha finally broke through with a smile.

"No, they don't," she replied.

"I agree, though, that's not normal," Geordi said. "A new chronometer shouldn't be off, like that."

_Normal,_ Tasha thought. _Everyone's so hung up on normal. What is normal, anyway? I've never lived a normal life._

* * *

**In the Ten Forward lounge, aboard the **_**Enterprise, **_**Stardate 41636.9**

Even before she'd worked in a real bar, Tasha Yar believed that _Enterprise'_s Ten Forward lounge had all the charm of a bland mess hall with a great view as its only selling point. While serving on other ships, she'd been in lower deck lounges that had much more character. They were certainly livelier.

_This place is dead,_ Tasha thought. _No raucous behavior, no real liquor, no sports . . . ugh._ She had become used to the cacophony of a bar where people were really intoxicated, instead of the fake, synthehol-induced giddiness that easily was shaken off if duty called. People in the 21st century certainly had no limit to bad habits, but they also knew how to have a good time.

Dr. Beverly Crusher and Will Riker were sitting at the table with her, observing the too-quiet scene. "Never thought I'd miss the noise, but I do," Will remarked. "I especially miss the music. I wonder why Ten Forward has no background music."

"I don't know. I was wondering the same thing," Tasha replied. "Maybe everyone's musical tastes are varied enough that it's difficult to choose music that would be suitable across cultures."

"This place could use some livening up," Beverly remarked. "Perhaps we should schedule a few musical numbers or plays."

"A jazz jam sounds like a great idea," Will replied, nodding his head.

"Maybe you can play some of those recordings you brought back," Tasha said, trying—and failing—to keep a straight face.

Will got it, immediately. He glared at her over the rim of his water glass. "Speaking of music, I'm plotting my revenge," he declared.

"I thought you liked Bob and Tom," Tasha remarked. "You enjoyed listening to their show."

"That was on 21st century Earth, where crass entertainment was so prevalent it couldn't be ignored," Will said, then turned to Beverly, "She's talking about a radio program that—well, it had its funny moments. We had a radio in our apartment. She evidently saved a copy of one of those songs and felt compelled to have it piped into my cabin for the 0445 wake-up, today."

"I'm just glad you finally stopped listening to the political talk shows," Tasha countered. "They were horrible, truly grating and demoralizing. Those people got paid to pick fights and scream at each other. No wonder World War III happened."

"So, what was the song?" Beverly asked.

"The song was _completely _inappropriate," Will said, shaking his head, barely suppressing an urge to support his forehead in his hands. He didn't want to attract attention from others sitting in Ten Forward. He felt self-conscious enough as it was.

"Actually, in light of what you got to wear on Angel One, I thought it was very appropriate," Tasha said, unable to keep a grin from spreading across her face. The memory of Will Riker dressed in the "submissive male" getup was not fading anytime soon . . . especially for Will.

"I'm out of shape!" Will exclaimed. "Give me some credit! I've lost five pounds since we returned. Haven't I, Dr. Crusher?"

Beverly nodded. "You're doing very well," she agreed, swallowing an impulse to tell him how horrified she'd been at how his metabolic rate had plummeted since he'd been more sedentary during his time on Earth.

"I'd say I took one for the team on this Away Mission," he added.

"Something like that," Tasha said, shooting him a look. _Those must have been interesting negotiations with Mistress Beata, _she thought_. I'm just glad he was still dressed when Deanna and I showed up. _

"I can't believe that you brought back that song," Will remarked. "Of all the quality music you could have brought back, you saved that one."

"I saved lots of music," she said. "None of it can be found easily, today."

"None of your music can be played in polite company," Will declared, mostly as an explanation to Beverly Crusher, who was thoroughly amused by the exchange. "I brought back thousands of jazz and blues standards and live recordings, this incredible music that had been lost to history because digital records were lost . . . and _she_ brought back the most unbelievably loud, shrill _crap _I've ever heard."

Their food arrived, and even before Dr. Crusher could pick up her fork to begin tearing into her dinner, the two officers seated beside her began raiding pieces from each other's plates. Beverly watched, her mouth agape, as Will reached over Tasha's salad to grab the pickle spear from the edge of her plate.

"Thank you for the green peppers, sir," Tasha remarked, spearing several off his plate with her fork and popping them into her mouth. She noticed Beverly sitting still and finally looked up at her. "He's not going to eat them," Tasha explained.

"I'm not," Will agreed. "And I wouldn't want this pickle to go to waste—."

Beverly leaned in closer so she could lower her voice and whisper, "Are you sure there's nothing going on between you two?" she whispered. "Because you are acting just like a married couple. You are giddy and glowing. I'm not buying the whole platonic thing, and neither is anyone else.

"Nothing's going on," Will and Tasha replied, virtually at the same time.

"That was a quick denial," Beverly said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. Her expression bore out complete amusement, because there _had_ to be something going on. Beverly wasn't much of a gossip, but even she had heard the tales of Will Riker's various conquests. Surely, if they were living together, there had been more to it.

"We're just very good friends, and that was not something that happened overnight," Will said. "We went through a lot to get to this point."

"Definitely had some rough patches," Tasha acknowledged, her expression completely serious. "But we never dated. We dated other people. Actually, Will dated _a lot_ of other people."

He sighed, rolling his eyes, but not denying what she said. "Just for the record, the foul musical selection in Lt. Yar's cabin's library is courtesy of the _kid_ she dated back on Earth."

"He wasn't a kid!" Tasha countered. She deliberately had tried not to think about Shaun Conaghan since she'd returned to the _Enterprise._ The "friends with benefits" relationship she'd had with Shaun, a fellow waiter putting himself through graduate school, had nagged at her. _There weren't supposed to be strings attached,_ she thought. _So what's my problem?_

"He was, what, five years younger?" Will asked, and then caught an unmistakable glare from her, the look that said, _it's time to back off,_ and just as quickly, he did.

It wasn't as if he didn't also have ghosts of long-dead liaisons who haunted him as well, including a daughter he hadn't learned about until he'd returned to the _Enterprise._ Shaken, Will had told Tasha about it almost immediately, but hadn't yet told Deanna, the only other person he really wanted to know. Will and Deanna's own relationship was skewing back into the "purely professional" mode again, he didn't want to hurt Deanna with the acknowledgement of yet another woman on the side, plus a child he'd never known.

_I'll tell her eventually,_ he'd said to Tasha only an hour after he learned that his alias name had been listed on a birth certificate of a daughter born in 2009._ Things are just too messed up, right now. I can't do that to her._

_She deserves to know, _Tasha had said._ She can probably sense that something's very wrong. You need to tell her, soon._

_I will,_ he'd replied. _Really._

But he hadn't, and now he would need to wait. Deanna was off the _Enterprise_ for the first of two, scheduled conferences she needed to attend to maintain her counselor's license. He'd also avoided bringing up Shaun Conaghan to Tasha, until now.

"Four years," she said after a few seconds, while her gaze was fixed to the table. "He_ was_ four years younger."

Will tapped his foot against hers under the table. "Sorry," he said, his voice low. "That was lame. I'm really sorry."

She glanced back at him. "Thanks," she said, softly.

"So, when do I get to hear this song?" Beverly interjected, also recognizing that both Will and Tasha had collectively stepped in a deeply layered mess, and needed a subject-change lifeline.

"I'll send it to you," Tasha replied. "But play it in your quarters. Don't play it in Sickbay."

"That bad, huh?" Beverly replied, her curiosity thoroughly peaked. "What's it called?"

"Man Boobs," Tasha replied, keeping a straight face.

Beverly laughed outright. "And it's in Standard?"

"English," Tasha replied. "Close enough."

"I feel so picked on," Will muttered into his salad before looking back up at Dr. Crusher. "Observe, please, that I'm feasting on rabbit food to lose these man boobs."

Tasha began coughing, then noticed something.

"Look at that," Tasha nodded toward the waiter, even as she stifled laughter. "That tray has an automatic ability to lift and balance everything that's on it. He's probably never spilled a drink in his life."

"You didn't spill _that_ many," Will remarked.

"You weren't there for the first three weeks."

"I was there when you wound up wearing the borrowed t-shirt for that other team . . .what was it?"

"Mizzou."

"Oh, yeah," he said, grinning. "Mizzou."

"Another thing I learned after it was too late," Tasha remarked to Beverly. "If you're carrying large quantities of various libations, don't wear a white shirt."

Beverly got the latter connotation, but the other references went right over her head. _They're re-acclimating, _she thought._ They need to talk this out until it's all a faint memory, then it won't seem as important._

* * *

**Starbase 74, aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_

By the time the _Enterprise_ was warping toward Starbase 74 for a scheduled (albeit a bit late) maintenance workup, Will Riker had transitioned back to his old self, for the most part. Picard seemed pleased, and had encouraged the entire crew to take advantage of the break they would get while Starfleet Maintenance and the Binars upgraded their computer systems.

Lt. Yar had compiled a ship-wide list of internal chronometers that needed replacing, and turned that over to maintenance. She joined three other _Enterprise_ crew members who had taken up an invitation from Starbase personnel to a "friendly game of Parrises Squares", as she'd put it to Commander Riker when they ran into each other in the corridor. She especially was delighted that Lt. Worf had elected to join the team and encouraged Will to join them, also.

"We can switch off," she'd said.

Will had wanted to go. But he felt compelled to remain aboard the ship during the refit, and he also didn't want to ruin the rhythm of the game by interrupting it. Besides, he'd hoped to take some downtime during the refit to play some music, and thought it would be the perfect opportunity to try out the Holodecks, again. Both he and Natasha Yar had avoided the Holodecks since their return to the _Enterprise. _And really, no one blamed them.

Lately, he had spent his off-duty time listening to recordings of live jams he'd brought back from the 21st century, and had played his trombone for the first time since he'd been back. He still had some rust to shake out, and "new" music fresh in his mind. So he initially programmed the Holodeck for a setting in Kansas City, to try his hand at jamming with some of the best musicians in the universe.

Then he thought better of it.

The thought of being in a simulated version of a place he'd lived for nearly two years was unsettling. _There's no way to recreate that, even with the upgrade,_ he thought. Feeling he would be caught up in comparisons and disappointed, he altered the location to New Orleans. _Great atmosphere, incredible music. Different, more upbeat, just what I need,_ he thought.

* * *

**Ten Forward, aboard the **_**USS Enterprise,**_ **later that evening**

His mind a tumult, Will Riker relaxed at a table in the far corner of Ten Forward. For once, he was glad for the relative silence of the dreary place. His ears still rang with echoes of the Red Alert alarms that had blared throughout the ship during the Binar incident, when the _Enterprise_ crew—himself and Captain Picard included—had been lulled into believing the ship was secure during its computer upgrade. Instead, the Binars sabotaged and stole the ship.

"Mind if I join you?"

Will didn't even look in the direction of the voice, didn't need to. "Not at all, lieutenant," he said. "Have a seat."

Tasha sat across the table from him. She held a steaming mug of soup, and noticed his usual glass of water was nearly empty.

"Did you already eat?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I'm not really hungry," he said. "I just came from Commander Quinteros' ass-chewing by Starfleet Command; not pleasant. I had to admit for the record that I was lured by a computer-generated knockout in the Holodeck."

"At least you remained on the ship," she countered. "The _Enterprise_'s security contingent wasn't even aboard."

"Security wasn't cited as an issue," Riker said. "We were under orders."

"We were very quick to trust the Binars," Tasha said. "They stole the ship from our own Starbase while I was gallivanting around a Parrises court."

"You're being too hard on yourself, again," he said. "We were all too quick to trust them."

She shrugged. "Maybe."

"How's your shoulder?"

"Better than it was this morning," Tasha replied. "I finally went to Sickbay. Dr. Selar put me on 24-hour, light duty, administrative stuff only. No hand-to-hand, no pushups, no nothing for the next 24 hours until the ligaments heal from the knit-job she just did."

Despite himself, Riker smiled. "You poor thing!" he said in mock sympathy. For Tasha Yar, light duty was the same as bedrest. _She's going to go nuts,_ he thought. "So, if you behave yourself and if all goes well, you'll be released tomorrow evening."

"I hope so," she said.

"So, how are you planning to celebrate your eventual release from light duty?"

"I have no idea," she replied, shaking her head. "I need to survive 24 hours of light duty before I can celebrate my release from it."

"How about some one-on-one basketball?"

A broad smile spread across her face. "Absolutely!" she replied. "It's been awhile."

"If we were still on Earth, we'd just now be getting into basketball season," Will said. "I do miss that. It was a good workout."

"Still is," Tasha said. "There are still basketball leagues in the 24th century. None on the _Enterprise_, though."

"Not yet," Will said, then he glanced out the window at the stars, again. Will missed the intramural sports leagues he'd joined while he was in the 21st century. Those were down-and-dirty workouts, nothing like the primness of the _Enterprise_. He missed standing on a muddy field in Pennway Park, or huffing stale air inside a Midtown gymnasium during a basketball game with a bunch of other guys he barely knew, and didn't care to. They were just there to play basketball. He missed walloping softballs, running bases, being stretched every which direction to catch fly balls. He had fond memories of teaching Tasha how to throw a ball with some measure of respectable form.

He still grinned at the memory of Gary Tobin splitting his pants while hunkering down at second base, or the equally funny reaction of Gary's wife, Kim, who laughed so hard that she fell over in left field. _We had good times,_ he thought. He wondered how the Tobins were doing now at their new post in San Francisco, wondered how their two children were adjusting to life in their future.

Everyone else they'd known in the 21st century was dead.

He took a deep breath and let it out as slowly. "Do you ever wonder how our lives would have been if we'd stayed?" he asked, going down that path slowly.

"You mean, if we hadn't been rescued from the 21st century?"

He looked back at her. "Yeah," he replied. "Over the last day, I've been thinking about that. I'm finding myself looking back more than I'm looking forward."

She didn't miss a beat. "How's that working for you?"

He smiled, finally, and shook his head. "Not well," he said.

"I can't spend time thinking about what ifs, because then I'd go crazy," Tasha said. "We made it back when we were meant to."

"We weren't meant to be there in the first place."

"There isn't anything we can do about it," she said. "We can't go back and change things. And I wouldn't want to live my life knowing too much ahead of time, anyway."

"You're acting like you're afraid of one possible future," Will remarked.

"I'm afraid of losing what I've already got," she said. "Who's to say I didn't finally get picked off by all those KC Metro buses that seemed to have me targeted? Things are weird enough without adding regret to the mix."

"What do you mean?" Will asked.

"I've been getting these vibes," she said, using that phrase she'd learned on Earth. "They're just bad vibes, like my number's coming up. Ever since we got back, something doesn't feel right, like I shouldn't get too comfortable, but not in a transfer kind of way. But in a feeling of doom kind of way."

"Now you're getting paranoid," he remarked.

"I've never felt this way, before."

"Well, neither have I," he said.

"This is something different, like a dread."

"I suppose you can take it as a warning," he said. "To be more careful as you ease back into things. That might have prevented your shoulder from being injured."

"Maybe that's all it is," Tasha said, but she still didn't sound convinced. "When does Counselor Troi get back?"

"Tomorrow," Will replied. "And no, I haven't spoken with her about anything, yet."

_You knew I'd ask,_ Tasha thought. "Why not?"

"I've been busy, she's been busy . . ."

"Now it's my turn to call bullshit," Tasha muttered.

"When's your sickbay checkup?" Riker interjected.

"You're changing the subject."

"Yes, I am," he said. "What time is your checkup?"

"Right after we're off duty, 1915 hours."

"Let's play basketball at 1930," he said. "Call me when you're leaving sickbay, we can meet up at the Hologym."

"Sounds like a plan," she said, finally smiling again.

* * *

**The next day, 2105 hours, aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_

By 2100 hours the following evening, Jean-Luc Picard was in a thoroughly foul mood. He wove through busy corridors, that evening, enroute to a meeting with Chief Engineer Logan. His focus was on warp coil efficiency and the less-than-perfect marks released only 30 minutes ago. The inspection at Starbase 74 had detected some areas of weakness within the coil that were direct evidence that routine maintenance had been neglected, for some reason.

_They weren't being cleaned properly,_ he thought, fuming. _This is a brand new ship, and we should have no such issues._

Still stinging from the relative humiliation of having his own ship stolen under his nose two days earlier, Picard was further chastened to have received such a notification. It hadn't helped that the ship's corridors were full of people laughing and carrying on, heading to various, off-duty engagements. In the midst of the noise, two familiar voices caught his attention.

"- grabbed a towel from the Holodeck," Commander Riker was saying as he and Lt. Yar strode around the corridor's corner. They dressed in loose workout clothes, heading back from the Hologym, drenched in sweat.

"Hold still for a second—," Yar said, reaching toward Riker. She leaned sideways, grabbed his loose, right shirtsleeve, and used it to wipe her forehead. He stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded but smiling.

"Thank you, sir," she said.

"What the hell was that?" Will asked, jokingly, laughing about it.

Neither noticed that Captain Picard was glowering at both of them from further down the corridor. On Earth, it wouldn't have been a big deal, and it wasn't a big deal on the _Enterprise_, either, as far as they both were concerned. But military protocol held that it would be unthinkable for a subordinate to wipe her brow on her commanding officer's shirtsleeve.

"Much better," Tasha remarked. "Now I can see."

"That was disgusting," Riker said, half in jest.

"You really want me going there with disgusting?" she shot him a sideways glance. "There was that issue with the towel . . ."

"The one you forgot to grab in the Holodeck?"

"No, the Kansas City towel," Tasha replied. "_That_ towel."

"It was your towel."

"But it was _your_ mess."

"Actually, it—," Riker stopped when he noticed who was standing in the middle of the corridor, frowning.

"Hello, sir," Yar said, her voice losing its levity in the presence of the ship's ranking officer.

Captain Picard glared at them for exactly two seconds, just long enough to let both know he was hacked off about something. He requested they step into a nearby, empty conference room for a chat. The door had barely slid shut behind them when he lit into them about fraternization.

"I know you said there's nothing going on, I know Deanna Troi has insisted there's nothing going on," Picard began. "But the rumor mill is rampant, and based on what I just saw and heard, I'm inclined to believe it."

"Sir—," Riker began.

"Enough!" Picard snapped. "You're senior officers. You are role models for the flagship of the Federation, but you were carrying on like teenagers who need to grow up. Whatever it is, put a stop to it. Perhaps after your soirée through time you need to be reminded unprofessional behavior is not tolerated on the _Enterprise_. I gave you time, and now I need both of you back, and in top form. Lieutenant Yar, you are dismissed."

"Yes, sir," she said, her face now flushed with embarrassment. She kept her eyes downcast as she turned and left the room. Natasha Yar had few disciplinary blips on her record, so Picard knew that it wouldn't take much to humble her back into compliance.

"Number One," Picard said. "I'm on my way to Engineering to address the warp coil report that came back with three components needing to be cleaned on a brand new ship. After I'm finished addressing that issue, I'd like you to look at staffing in Engineering, see where we may need to make changes."

"Yes, sir," he replied, now feeling self-conscious in workout clothes.

"On a lighter note, I did receive your memo this evening about livening up Ten Forward. And appearances today to the contrary, I think that would be a splendid idea," Picard said. "However, I would hope that any Ten Forward musical selection would not include the trashy, 21st century homily that is making its way throughout the ship."

"Sir?"

"I stopped by Sickbay this afternoon, and arrived to find four medical team members turning purple with laughter, listening to a highly inappropriate song that Dr. Crusher had evidently shared with them. And now, it's all over the _Enterprise._ Teenagers are whistling this tune in the corridors."

_Oh shit,_ Will thought.

"Man Boobs," Picard said. "Really, Number One. And I thought Dixon Hill had its low moments. Some things are best lost to history, Will. Stick to jazz, but don't quit your day job."

* * *

_Regards to Jonathan Frakes, who bravely modeled the Angel One "man suit" for TNG fans everywhere. When that episode was rerun earlier this summer, the immortally inappropriate ditty on Bob and Tom's radio program came to my twisted mind as I wrote the earlier draft for the sequel. Of course, it stayed through the final draft. Man Boobs was played to death here in the States during the time frame that Riker and Yar were stranded in Future's Past: If they'd been here, they would have heard it. And it still seems to strike a chord with hairy gentlemen who live in the real world, and have NO desire to go to the gym or get a wax job. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Future's Present, Chapter 2**

* * *

**Personal log of Lt. Natasha Yar, Stardate 41309.5**

_Well, at least after 20 months away from my phaser, I still can use it effectively._

"_Two shots, two hits," Will had said upon our return from Mordan IV. "Not bad, lieutenant."_

"_Thank you, sir," I'd replied, and then continued my tactical scan of the planet's defenses. The terrorists were gearing up for our next "invasion", as it was put in their communications channels. Hacking into their comm network was easy. I learned that the two soldiers I'd shot were listed as "wounded". _

_And that's Commander Riker, not Will, to me for the foreseeable future. Captain Picard made that very clear several days ago. I hadn't understood it to be improper for officers to be on friendly terms, but apparently he thought there was more going on, and ordered us to "put a stop to it". I don't wish to earn insubordination demerits, so I've kept my distance from Commander Riker, even though our relationship is strictly platonic._

_I've resumed hand-to-hand training on the Holodeck and have reached Level 9, which is where I was prior to the Abyat time warp. I'm relieved that the karate I learned in Kansas City seems to have helped me maintain my form, plus given me a few new "moves". I do miss the KCMO dojo, the people who tended to hang out there, the ancient punching bags, the disintegrating mats, the dried blood droplets permanently staining the hardwood floors._

_The Hologym here seems too sterile . . . well, it is sterilized of microbial signatures after anyone uses it. I kind of got used to wondering what diseases I might catch from having my face smashed against the communal mats at the dojo. Difficult moves are only successful with great discipline, and I look forward to adding more karate to my workouts. _

_The martial arts competition is coming up in a few months. I'm hopeful that Lt. Worf might join me on a Level 10 simulation. Neither of us have dared to take that on by ourselves. I don't know anyone aboard the Enterprise who has. Perhaps if we team up, we might have a chance to score well against the sim. It would be great practice, and a great challenge._

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41309.5**

Will found himself walking laps around the ship, stalling, thinking of how he'd break the news to Deanna. He had promised Tasha he'd tell her, but hadn't had the appropriate opportunity until after Deanna returned from her relicensing conference. That was what he'd told himself, anyway.

Deanna had cast a few glances in his direction during the Aldean incident, when seven children were kidnapped from the _Enterprise_ and very nearly not recovered were it not for a discovery about Aldea's protective shield. Now that the children were returned and Aldea had begun their recovery from radiation-induced sterility, the _Enterprise_ headed on its way.

Will imagined that the anguished emotions present from the parents of those missing children almost certainly drowned out Will's own, internal conflict to Deanna. But now that the crisis was over and they were leaving, he knew he'd need to tell her. She was bound to him emotionally, so he couldn't hide anything from her.

He rehearsed._ So, when I was on Earth in the 21st century, there was this other woman . . . _

"There were lots of other women, Will," he imagined Tasha would taunt him, if she'd heard that. Ever the cynic, she'd have called him out on that one. His relationship with Tasha was more sibling-like: He the older brother, she the younger sister. Opportunities to tease each other weren't passed up.

_All right, _Will thought. _So, when I was living on Earth, I met a woman, Stephanie. . . _

"Met? What kind of bullshit is that?" he could almost hear Tasha mocking him. "Were you two playing checkers with each other while I was stranded in the hallway covered with someone else's vomit?"

Will knew that he was imagining Tasha's reaction, but suspected it was his own subconscious playing games with him as he figured out how exactly to word what he was going to say to Deanna. _Not that it matters,_ he thought. _Deanna probably will sense what I'm about to stammer before it's even come to MY mind. _

"You still need to tell her," Tasha had told him, really, to his face as Deanna's shuttle was departing the _Enterprise_ for the conference. "Candyassing around does you NO favors."

_So, I had a relationship with a woman on Earth named Stephanie,_ Will practiced.

"Sloppy Seconds . . ."

_Stop it, _Will thought, more to himself than the imaginary Tasha in his mind. He hadn't liked Tasha's nickname for Stephanie at all._ And while I was researching the fates of people I'd known there, I learned that Stephanie gave birth to a child in 2009, and listed my alias as the father._

"Yep, Sloppy Seconds begat Thirds."

Will cringed at his own, internal dialogue. _I must be seriously screwed up, if I'm hearing Tasha's imaginary voice in my head, especially since Picard wants us to cool our friendship so people don't get the wrong idea. _

Will stopped in the corridor, fixated on the pattern in the carpet beneath his uniform boots. He knew he was stalling, that he'd need to either turn around or keep walking toward Deanna Troi's cabin, which was only about 10 meters away, around the corner.

"Commander?"

He looked back up, and saw Deanna standing there in front of him. Off-duty and dressed in a flowing but somewhat clingy outfit bearing colors and patterns that flattered her complexion, Deanna had left her hair down, only loosely tied back from her face. Will liked that, and didn't attempt to hide that flash of attraction to her.

"I was about to take a walk in the arboretum," Deanna said, her eyes friendly, inviting. She picked up what he thought of how she looked as readily as she recognized that he had other things on his mind that had little to do with her. "Would you like to join me?"

_I'd love to join you, but not there,_ Will thought. "Can we talk someplace that isn't so public?"

* * *

**In Deanna's cabin**

"I wonder if she tried to find me," Will said, staring at his hands. They were sitting side-by-side on the couch in Deanna's cabin, and he'd just spilled his secret. "If she came to the apartment after we left, or came by the club . . ."

He imagined that Stephanie _had_ attempted to find him. And he imagined Immanuel's reaction to a pregnant woman walking into Nichols looking for a baby daddy named William Riggs, which had been Riker's alias while he was living in Kansas City. The head chef at the jazz club where Will worked had known Will would find himself in this kind of trouble, and had loudly professed that to half the Away Team seated at the restaurant one night just after they arrived. Immanuel had had no clue they were all from the future and would leave within two weeks. Opinionated but often right, Immanuel had quickly earned respect from Will, even when he pushed Will's buttons.

"I seem to remember a certain chef predicting that this would happen," Deanna remarked, and somehow, she hid the wry expression she felt creeping across her face. She had been seated at that table when Immanuel had made his pronouncement, but also knew she was indirectly involved. Tasha had come to dinner with the group, that evening, and surreptitiously mentioned to Immanuel that Deanna was "the one" for Will.

Immanuel had raised his eyebrows, and promptly gave Tasha a piece of loud, heartfelt advice: "You got to stop letting him screw other women!" Appropriately embarrassed, Tasha opted to shut up with further observations. Will had teased her about it for hours.

In the year that he had known Will, Immanuel had seen the handsome waiter squiring numerous women, playing the field that was available to him. Will claimed that he wasn't dating his roommate, so it didn't surprise Immanuel that Tasha was trying to set Will up with a woman she knew so she could avoid being locked out of their apartment again. Will's shack-up with "Miss Right Now", as Immanuel had called her, had resulted in multilayered issues with Tasha.

But Stephanie had been interesting, smart, _beautiful_. She loved jazz. She did yoga. She worked at a nearby art museum. They'd been together twice, then drifted apart. He'd been philosophical about it. He wasn't certain Stephanie was right for him, either. Tasha had said something that still nagged at him, pronouncing Will's one-night-stands a "stand-ins for the one person you really want to be with". She made it clear that person was Deanna Troi.

"Immanuel did say something like this would happen," Will agreed. "But by the time he said that, it had already happened."

"She never contacted you?"

"No," Will said. "Not that I know of. I don't know why she didn't. We left in November of 2008. She had this baby in February, 2009. She had to have known she was pregnant."

"People who are faced with life-changing issues often respond by avoiding the unpleasant parts of those issues," Deanna said.

"Why wouldn't she have told me?"

"I don't know," Deanna replied.

"My name is on the birth certificate."

"Your alias is on the birth certificate."

He shot her a look. "I wonder if she came into Nichols and looked for me," he said. "If she'd put my name on the birth certificate, she had to have acknowledged . . . surely she tried to contact me. I can just imagine what Immanuel had to say about that."

Deanna couldn't help but smile. "So can I," she remarked. She'd liked Immanuel, and she liked Immanuel's boyfriend, too. Bryce was one of the most honest human beings she'd ever met, the type of person who shared every notion that crossed his mind, no matter how crass.

"He was right, though," Will added. "He called her Miss Right Now."

"It appears so."

"I know you're disappointed," Will blurted out.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because of you and I."

She shook her head. "Will, our romantic relationship can't continue," she said. "You know that. It's a violation of chain of command."

He shrugged. She was right. "Did you know that Picard had ordered Tasha and I to "put a stop to it," as he put it?" he muttered. "Put a stop to it to a platonic friendship. Gives the wrong impression. Business only."

"Yes," Deanna said. "He mentioned that to me. And while you might not agree, he does have a point. Discipline would become an issue on a ship where friendships could cut into military order."

"She knows about Stephanie," he said. "About the baby, I mean. She knows."

"What was her response?" Deanna asked, stuffing aside the twinge of unease that Will had told Tasha first.

"_That's_ a loaded question," Will muttered, recalling how his relationship with Tasha nearly disintegrated because of his infatuation with Stephanie. He still felt awful about that foul-up. He'd locked Tasha out of the apartment on the one night she really needed to get into the apartment, so she could change clothes. After being vomited on by a patron at the bar where she worked, Tasha had walked back to the apartment for a shower and a change of clothes so she could go back on that busy evening. Will had responded by shoving clean clothes out the door at her, then locking her out so he could enjoy the rest of the evening with Stephanie.

Tasha's response was predictable. She blew up at him the next morning, they fought, she moved out, and they didn't really talk again for three weeks. By then, other issues had surfaced. They figured out how much they needed each other to survive the century they'd been stuck in, and had remained close ever since.

After they arrived back on the _Enterprise,_ Will had accessed historical records to see what had become of people and places he'd known on Earth in the 21st century. There was no record of what had happened to Immanuel, though Will knew he must have died during the riots or shortly thereafter. But a search of Will's alias had yielded the birth certificate hit. He hadn't told anyone at first, putting the revelation out of his mind, initially.

The first person he'd told had been Tasha Yar. Will hadn't told Deanna, at first. But he couldn't do it, hedging for days even as Tasha urged him to tell her. She even threatened to renege on her promise she'd made to him, saying she was going to tell Deanna if he wouldn't.

Now she knew. And yet, he sensed no proverbial weight lifted from his shoulders. He only felt exposed.

Through her cabin computer and subspace geneology records from Earth, Deanna was able to locate three photos of Stephanie and five photos of her daughter, Sarah. Their last known location was in Harrisonville, Missouri in 2020. Mother and daughter both shared a date of death, though a cause wasn't listed on that specific record. Since many of the digital records of the time didn't survive World War III, many family histories vanished. Will knew he was lucky to have the information he did. He never was able to find out what had happened to Immanuel.

"I've sent a copy of this to your cabin," Deanna said. He nodded. "I'm so sorry."

"She was 11 when she died," Will remarked.

"Yes," Deanna said. "This document doesn't disclose the cause of death, but there are no others available that linked her name to that date."

He nodded. "Thanks," he muttered. Deanna didn't press further, sensing that he needed time to absorb this latest round of information. He thanked her again, then left.

He knew he'd save the information he had, maybe print out a copy of the photo of his daughter, taken in 2019 when she would have been 10 years old. Sarah's hair was auburn, like her mother's, but the Riker resemblance was strong. She had her father's blue eyes and his height. She was nearly as tall as her mother already, standing by her side and wearing what looked like a school uniform, all gangly legs, blue eyes and a bright smile, oblivious of her eventual fate.

It was Will's next instinct to radio Tasha, tell her what he'd learned, but he didn't. He knew that there needed to be a separation. Now that chain of command was in place, it wouldn't be appropriate for him to speak with a subordinate, just so he could feel better. _I didn't like it, but Picard was right. Tasha and I will always be friends, but there must be a professional separation, much like there is between Deanna and I. Probably more so._

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41416.2**

Tasha sensed that shift, and avoided Will Riker when she didn't need to report to him. Their interactions on the bridge were professional, but reserved, especially when Admiral Quinn and Lt. Com. Remmick came aboard the _Enterprise_ on a "fact-finding mission" to ferret out deviations in protocol.

Remmick especially hacked her off. The entire tactical station had been turned upside down, its records gutted by this Starfleet inspector who didn't search as much as he just wrecked the place. One by one, officers were pulled into the adjacent conference room and questioned. Tasha was especially pleased to learn that Lt. Worf had been his sullen self during his interrogation.

_None of us have done anything wrong,_ she told him, just before she went into the conference room for her turn in "the chair", as several security officers had begun calling Remmick's questioning. _This is just a test to shake us up._

"So, tell me something, lieutenant," Remmick began, his expression wry, arrogance seeping from his voice. Tasha already didn't like him, and now she was suspicious of his motives. "How did Jake Kurland steal a shuttle from the _USS Enterprise_?"

"Our investigation into that matter is just beginning, sir," Tasha replied. "Shuttlebay logs and logins for shuttle access currently were being uploaded into Tactical Command when you arrived, and the inspection has slowed our investigation."

Badly feigning incredulity, Remmick stared at her for three seconds, then laughed outright.

"In other words, you don't have any idea how this kid stole a shuttlecraft right under your nose, do you?"

"Not yet, sir. Our investiga—."

"You're the security chief, and you keep passing things off as we, we, we!" he said, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the conference table. "The little piggy said the same thing."

"_We_ on the _Enterprise_ function as a team," Tasha said, ignoring Remmick's stupid remark about the little piggy. "The security procedures aboard the _Enterprise_ are the tightest aboard any ship in the Federation. If Mr. Kurland found a loophole, it will be closed, and we will be passing that information to other ships in Starfleet so a repeat occurrence will be avoided."

"He shouldn't have found it in the first place! This situation reeks of security breaches on the _Enterprise_, which comes right back to you, lieutenant! Please tell me how serving drinks in a 21st century bar maintained your discipline while you were on your time travel vacation away from the _Enterprise_."

"Permission to speak freely, sir," Tasha said, her voice evenly intense.

"All right," Remmick said. "You've got my permission to speak freely."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, absolutely," he replied. "Tell me what you're dying to say."

"You're full of shit."

Remmick's eyebrows shot up, but he hadn't expected anything else from Natasha Yar, whom he'd regarded as a loose cannon needing to be taken down a couple of pegs, at least. He thought she'd been promoted rashly by Jean-Luc Picard. She had little experience with management, and yet here she was, chief of security aboard the Federation's flagship.

"Is that the best retort you have?" he said. "Coming from you, it doesn't mean much. Interesting, that someone with such a lack of supervisory experience wound up as chief of security aboard the _USS Enterprise_. It made me wonder what other skills you possess. So looked up your record, and keep in mind, I have access to the classified section of your record, so I know _everything_ about you. I know about your former career on Turkana IV, and it's abundantly clear to me _which_ skill set you probably used to get to the top."

Tasha forced calm over herself, knowing this was Remmick's style. He was out to make her mad so she'd be more likely to talk. Problem was, she had nothing to say to him. The _Enterprise_ crew had met every challenge well, and functioned cohesively as a team. Remmick's suggestion otherwise would only drive a wedge between them.

"So old-school of you," Tasha remarked calmly. "Trying to piss me off to get information out of me."

"Speaking of old-school, how was the 21st century?"

"It was what it was, sir," she replied. _Here we go,_ she thought.

"You and Commander Riker must have become very, very close."

"What are you insinuating?"

"Come on," Remmick shot his best smarmy look at her. "It's all over the ship. We aren't stupid."

"Neither are Commander Riker and I," Tasha replied. "Our relationship is strictly platonic. Anything more than that would have been a breach of protocol."

"So, you weren't interested," Remmick remarked. "_That's _interesting."

"You're just running your mouth because you've got nothing else to go on."

"You're out of line!"

"You said speak freely, what else did you expect from an undisciplined officer like me? You think I'm going to keep blowing sunshine up your ass?"

"You're dismissed, lieutenant!"

"Thank you, sir," she said.

"Send your boyfriend in here," he called as she stalked toward the door.

* * *

Tasha departed the conference room, pausing as the doors slid shut behind her. No one on the bridge dared turn around to look at her, which was fortunate, because she turned and flipped the universal "up yours" gesture at the closed doors separating her from Remmick. She didn't notice—or care—that Commander Riker was standing right there, waiting for his turn. He saw the whole display.

"Lieutenant . . ." Will began, swallowing an impulse to crack a smile. As much as he missed Tasha's sense of humor—and agreed with her assessment in this case—it still wasn't appropriate behavior on the bridge of the _Enterprise._

Tasha looked up. "Sir," she said, her face flushing somewhat. "Lt. Com. Remmick stated he is ready for you to report."

"Thank you," he replied.

"You're going to love it," Tasha muttered.

"Really, how badly _did_ you want to come back?" Remmick was barely 10 minutes into ripping into Will Riker when he went there with the 21st century time warp. "Did you enjoy your vacation, spent serving meals and listening to music? You know how pathetic that looks to everyone?"

Remmick knew a lot more about Will Riker than Will knew about Remmick. Will was one of those people that Remmick hated when he was growing up; Tall, athletic, got along with everyone, popular with the ladies. As a cadet, Remmick had found his weapon of choice was barrick-room-style attacks on other people. He was a rule follower, but grated on fellow cadets because he reported on them for everything. It wasn't long before he was absorbed into Starfleet command and groomed as an inspector.

Starfleet inspectors were chosen carefully because they were universally disliked. Remmick knew what people thought of him, but didn't care at all. His personality fit the role perfectly. Admiral Quinn took a liking to the young commander's in-your-face spirit, and insisted he accompany him on the _Enterprise_ investigation.

Will Riker remained silent through Remmick's initial onslaught on how he handled being stranded in the 21st century. Remmick reminded him of a term he'd heard in that century. He was a dweeby squirrel, Starfleet's sanctioned shit-stirrer. He figured he's let this lieutenant commander dig his own hole, and then let him have it back. Starfleet Command or not, Riker still outranked him.

"—didn't take you long to put another notch in your belt once you returned to the _Enterprise_," Remmick continued.. On your first mission back, in fact. You and this . . .what was her name, Mistress Beata, engaging in physical negotiations. Now that's professional. And speaking of professional, there's also the matter of fraternization with at least two of your senior staff subordinates—"

"Fraternization," Riker remarked. "Tell me how _you_ would have handled Angel One."

_You'd have been THEIR bitch,_ Will thought. _After the Council chewed you up and spit you out, you and Trent could have hung out together, spraying perfume on each other. _He forced his simmering mind to calm down. Angel One's disturbing bigotry was something he wasn't likely to forget anytime soon. It still was troubling that places in the Federation still existed where one gender was considered superior to the other.

"Don't act so shocked," Remmick said. "The relationship between you and your security chief is all over the ship. Lt. Yar was just in here and we had a very interesting conversation."

"Keep on dreaming," Riker countered. "We never had that kind of relationship."

"Uh huh," Remmick nodded sarcastically. "That's not what she said."

"You're lying!" Riker fired back. Tasha would never have said anything about it. There wasn't anything to discuss, anyway. Remmick was just trying to gig him.

"No, I'm being honest, Commander!" Remmick fired back. "You've lost all respect on this ship! You're a joke to everyone! You gallavant around the bridge, shouting orders as if you're afraid people might not hear you, maybe because you're afraid they aren't listening to your talking head. Everyone knows you're _thinking_ with one head, and one head only."

* * *

**Tactical loft on the bridge of the **_**USS Enterprise**_

Within two hours, Remmick had stirred a pot that previously functioned very well. Now the _Enterprise_ was full of suspicion and hurt feelings. He and Admiral Quinn had just met with Captain Picard to discuss their findings. Picard was glad to share his assessment of how they had handled the investigation, as well. Will would have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that meeting, but still . . . something wasn't right with either of the visiting officers. He opted to spend those minutes with tactical, with Tasha and Worf, discussing something that Picard had mentioned to him earlier in the day.

Picard knew something wasn't right. He didn't want either of the visitors to be unaccompanied aboard the ship.

"There's something about Remmick," Riker muttered to Tasha and Worf, who had gathered with two of her security officers to confer about keeping an eye on both Remmick and Admiral Quinn, on Picard's orders. They had to be surreptitious. The visitors would be leaving the ship within the hour after Quinn's meeting with Picard. "Deanna said she sensed duality, that he has torn loyalties. But there's something more, something different that I can't identify."

"He has a bug up his ass." Tasha added, and an involuntary smirk followed from one of the security officers.

Will glared at her. "Well, that was eloquent."

"I share her sentiment, sir," Worf remarked. "I do not dispute it."

As far as Picard was concerned, it wasn't the result of the investigation that troubled him. It was how it was carried out, and how it came across. Remmick's wishes to Picard had fallen on weary ears. He had said that if he were to be reposted, he would want to be posted aboard the _Enterprise_ because their crew was so cohesive and had that family feeling. Tasha heard that and wasn't impressed. If anything, it raised her suspicions.

"—and if he is posted here, I'll be watching him like a hawk," Tasha had said, her eyes intense, as she was briefing four patrol officers who were beginning their shift.

"What is a hawk, lieutenant?" Ensign Liang asked.

"A hawk is a bird of prey, indigenous to Earth," she explained. "When I was living on Earth, I saw hawks perched on trees and telephone poles. They would sit up there, watching and waiting. If a rat or a mouse was unfortunate enough to be seen, it would be nabbed before it even knew what had happened. So be wary of people like that. Don't give them anything. And Remmick knows too much already."

Liang didn't know enough about Earth's history.

"What's a telephone pole?" Liang whispered to her patrol partner, who shrugged as they checked out equipment for their walkabout shift. Tasha disappeared into the lift.

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, 1930 hours**

Will's meeting with Captain Picard had lasted through shift change. Picard said that although he didn't blame Lt. Yar for biting back at Remmick, she needed to be reminded that Remmick outranked her, even if he'd granted her permission to speak freely. When Picard played back the interrogation tapes, the phrase "full of shit" had been fired in Remmick's direction, and Will winced a bit. _As relieved as I am to see her being more relaxed while remaining as vigilant as ever, she must refrain from using objectionable language while on duty,_ Picard had said.

The captain lauded both Riker and Yar, however, for their handling of Remmick's accusations regarding their relationship. He'd been dismayed that his friendly relationship with Dr. Crusher also had been dragged into the relationship fracas, so he didn't have much to say about his first officer and security chief. All things considered, they seemed to have moved on.

Will jumped on the lift with Geordi LaForge, who was retiring to his quarters after his own helm shift. He needed to speak with Tasha, but she'd already been relieved by night duty personnel.

"Where's Lt. Yar?" he asked Geordi.

"Taking out her frustration by beating the hell out of a simulated opponent, sir," Geordi replied. "Sore shoulder and all."

Will sighed. _So much for her relaxing like she used to on Earth,_ he thought.

"Remmick really riled her up," Geordi remarked.

"Yes, he did," Will replied.

Geordi nodded. "Knowing Tasha, I'm sure she fired back a few volleys."

"She did," Will remarked. "I'm relieved she's not sitting in the brig, right now."

* * *

**In the martial arts suite, **_**Enterprise**_** gymnasium**

Will queried the computer, and was surprised where he found her. She wasn't in a hologym, but in one of the regular workout rooms that anyone could use at any time. He figured she'd be someplace where she could take out her rage in a less public place. Four other officers and the spouse of one officer were utilizing the free weights, and two others were doing ballet stretches at a barre mounted along the gym's far wall.

Tasha had been there for 30 minutes by the time Will arrived. She was wearing her customary tank top and shorts, her hands were taped and she was drenched with sweat, pummeling a hovering, punching bag that measured the force of blows delivered. Will glanced at the readouts even as she delivered a series of undercut punches until she was so worn out she needed to back away several steps.

She noticed him approaching and nodded. "Sir," she said, out of breath from exertion.

"How is your shoulder holding up?"

"Just fine," she replied.

Will fought not to interject. _'Just fine' means that it's sore, _he thought._ You just won't admit it._ "I'd offer to be your sparring partner, but I don't want to wind up in sickbay," he said.

Still breathing hard, she stood leaning over, and propped her hands against her knees. Will bent to rest his forearms atop her shoulders. At that point, he no longer cared what others in the gym would rumor about him and Tasha Yar. He knew all those people. If new rumors started, he would know who had started them.

"It makes no sense for you to wear yourself out when you're not going to be able to sleep, tonight," he said. He knew her far too well. He'd seen her tossing and turning when they were living in Kansas City, beset sometimes by flashbacks from her childhood. But sometimes she was angry at the world they lived in. She'd kick her sheets off, sit up in bed, stare out the window. Sometimes she went for a walk at 0400 hours, even when it was raining. She needed to move more than she needed to fall asleep. "Tash, look at me. Look at me."

She was still catching her breath, and sweat ran down her face. But when she did look up at him after several seconds, he could have sworn there were tears forming in her eyes, though he knew she'd never admit it.

"Let it go," Will said to her face. "Dump it. They stirred stuff up, and believe me, no one is more hacked off than Captain Picard."

She nodded, shutting her eyes tight and turning her face to the floor.

"I mean it," he continued. "If you don't lighten up, I'll order you to counseling."

She looked back up at him, her expression pained at the thought of being in counseling. She liked Deanna Troi, but never liked counseling sessions no matter who was conducting them.

"Oh, before you lighten up, I'm supposed to remind you to watch your language around ranking officers," Riker said.

She nodded. "Yes, sir," she replied.

"So, not that that's over, now you can lighten up. And I'll see you on the bridge tomorrow."

She nodded, the hint of a grin beginning in her eyes. It wasn't detectable to anyone else in the gym, but it was obvious to Will. He grinned back, stood up straight, took a few steps back, and left the gym. The interaction was brief, but meant volumes to both of them.


	3. Chapter 3

_FYI to new readers...Future's Present is the sequel to Future's Past, which involved time travel. Thanks for your patience and reviews!_

_Ali_

* * *

**Future's Present 3**

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41480.1, 2010 hours**

Tasha was pacing inside the Hologym, pondering what combat workout she should choose, today.

Level 9 was too easy for her. She needed to work out, and had the time slot saved in the Hologym for herself. Originally, she'd wanted to do an aerobic/calesthenic workout, knowing it would improve her stamina. But she was in the mood for a good fight.

The _Enterprise _was enroute to Sora, where protests had escalated to violence from insurgents opposed to Federation membership. Though the insurgent group was a radical minority opposed to Federation rule, they still presented dangers to Sorian citizens who had voted earlier to move past territorial status, and seek full Federation membership.

The Sorian government had supplied Federation ships with high-grade dilithium for the past 10 years. They worried greatly that commerce would be interrupted by the increase in terrorism by those opposed to Federatio membership, and requested to meet with Federation officials regarding their options. _Enterprise_ was the closest ship in the fleet.

Tasha wanted nothing more than to prove she was back, strong as ever, stronger than she'd been before she was stranded on Earth. She needed to be challenged. Worf was busy, having taken tactical duty that evening to relieve her at 1600 hours, so their planned Level 10 duo battle was out, for now.

But Tasha didn't feel like waiting. Trying to focus on anything but the emptiness she felt, she entered codes into the Hologym for a Level 10 martial arts battle for a single user. Warnings popped up from the computer as she entered the information, but she overrode them. _Level 9 is too easy, _she thought._ I'll be fine._

_I just need to punch someone, and I don't want it to be anyone I care about._

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, Sickbay, 2130 hours**

If Natasha Yar still were scrawling observations into the spiral notebook that she and Will Riker kept during their time stranded in the 21st century, she would have added a lesson she learned in the 24th: _Waking up in sickbay means two things: One, you're not dead; Two, you've probably screwed up._

Tasha's first lucid thought was that she'd finally been hit by one of those Kansas City Metro buses that seemed to have her targeted while she was on Earth. She heard something beeping, chanced opening one of her eyes, and was blinded by the overhead exam lights in the _Enterprise_ Sickbay, where she'd already spent far too much time, lately.

"Oh shit. . ." she muttered, and then the pain hit, like a vise around her head. She squeezed her eyes shut again. "I don't think the sim went well . . ."

"That would be correct, lieutenant," Beverly Crusher made no attempt to hide how irked she was. "You have a concussion, among other issues. Lie still—."

Crusher held a hypo spray to Tasha's neck, and Tasha involuntarily jerked as medication was jet-absorbed through her skin.

"Ow—," Tasha winced.

"Oh, quit it!" Beverly said, her patience worn thin. "You've got a concussion, a fracture of your left parietal bone, your left arm is broken in four places, your left elbow is dislocated, four bones are fractured in your right hand, your right thumb is dislocated . . . those are just the skeletal injuries. Oh, and the hairline fracture in your third cervical vertebrae. And you're lying here whining about a hypo spray?"

"I wasn't whining," Tasha protested.

"Worf carried you in here, and he told me you'd taken on a Level 10 b—."

"Wait, Worf _carried_ me in here?" Tasha tried to sit up.

"On a biobed for cervical spine precautions—don't even think about sitting up!" Crusher put her hands firmly on both of Tasha's shoulders, pushing her back onto the bed. She didn't need to push hard. The hypo spray rid Tasha of the headache, but the vertigo would remain for at least another hour. Her head was spinning enough that it would keep her in bed for twice that long. "You need to lie down while the knitters are working, especially with a c-spine fracture."

Tasha was humiliated enough to want to cover her face with her hands, but she couldn't move her left arm. It was completely immobilized, bent at the elbow and wrapped all the way up. She felt the stinging sensation of the knitters working in the midst of her forearm. Her elbow didn't feel right.

"So, my arm's broken?"

"Fractured and dislocated," Crusher said. "The ulnar nerve was severed, also."

"What time is it?"

"2130 hours," Beverly replied. "Dr. Selar called me when you came in."

"Oh," Tasha replied, chastened that Dr. Crusher had come in when she was off-duty. "Thanks for coming in to take care of me. How long do I need to stay in here?"

"You're welcome—again—and the rest of the night, at least," Beverly replied. "The fractures are easy to heal. It's the severed ulnar nerve and moderate concussion that takes time. I won't be releasing you to regular duty for at least the next 24 hours, more likely 36 hours. This isn't your first concussion, and based on your track record, it probably won't be your last."

Tasha's mouth fell open. I can't be off duty for 24 hours! "Dr. Crusher, we're heading into a hostage rescue situation," she protested. "Two different away teams will be going in for rescue and negotiations—."

"Yes, they still will be," Crusher replied. "And no, you won't be on either team. You've really done it to yourself, this time. This latest round of injuries involves serious nerve damage and a moderate concussion, and although you'll recover completely, it won't happen overnight."

Tasha drew a breath to argue, but Crusher cut her off.

"Well, what did you think was going to happen, Tasha?" Beverly said. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you enjoyed being in sickbay, because it seems like you're in here _all the time_. You're perfectly healthy, but you've got one of the _longest_ injury files on record with Starfleet Security, and that's across the entire fleet. And then you got sewn up six or seven times on Earth—."

"Four times."

"Four times, seven times, whatever," Beverly threw her arms up, and as she did, Captain Picard walked through Sickbay's main doors, clad in fencing gear, fresh from his own workout. He waited politely outside the treatment area, but his expression was sour as Beverly continued lighting into Tasha Yar. "How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself?"

"I don't go into these simulations intending to get hurt," Tasha argued. "I'm in there so I can learn to _avoid_ being hurt."

"One of these days, you're going to get hurt so badly that I won't be able to do anything to help you," Beverly replied, closing up her tricorder in preparation to speak with Picard. "And you're so flippant about it! As much as Sickbay personnel enjoy taking care of people, you have no idea what it does to us when one of our own is critically hurt. You have _no idea_. So think about that while you're lying here tonight and be more subtle in the future. Fractures and concussions don't constitute a workout."

* * *

Beverly turned away and conferred with Picard, and didn't try to conceal her frustration. She was understaffed, and already had too much on her plate. Picard listened patiently, then strode to Tasha's bedside.

"Lieutenant," he began, his voice terse.

"Sir," she replied.

"I'll not waste my time, nor will I waste yours," Picard said. "Dr. Crusher has informed me that you're going to be in here for the remainder of the evening, recovering from another preventable injury. Sickbay is currently understaffed, awaiting six nurses and technicians who are enroute for assignment, here. But our trip to the Persephone sector added three more days to their travels, and your most recent stint here has compounded Sickbay's staffing issues. Since you therefore owe them, I'm going to kill two birds with one stone and have you remain in here, assisting with anything they need until that personnel shuttle arrives."

"Sir, I—," Tasha began. She could feel her face flushing. _Three_ shifts in Sickbay? She wasn't trained for that. Her expertise was security. They had a hostage rescue situation that would be happening in less than 40 hours. Who was going to handle tactical while she was sitting around in here? And what was she going to do? It wasn't like she was licensed to do anything. She'd be more hindrance than helpful.

"Your protests are falling on disappointed ears, lieutenant!" he raised his voice, not caring that his words now could be heard by everyone else in Sickbay. "You've become insubordinate and undisciplined. You need an attitude adjustment, and they need help. This kills two birds with one stone. You have your assignment."

"Yes, sir," she replied, swallowing her utter shock, angry mostly at herself.

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, corridor just outside sickbay**

Picard thought he'd gotten away, weaving through the crowded, Deck 12 corridors, trying to evade a steaming mad Beverly Crusher. She caught up to him, anyway.

"Captain, a word?" Crusher asked.

"If this is about Lt. Yar, I don't want to hear about it, doctor," Picard said. He'd counted on chain of command being an argument deterrent. But Crusher followed him right into the corridor, weaving between others crowding Deck 12th main thoroughfare so she could speak with Picard while he was trying to escape the one individual who could yank his command without being brought up on mutiny charges.

"Well, you're going to hear about it," she said, no longer caring who overheard. "I cannot permit this assignment!"

"You are understaffed," Picard countered. "You said it yourself only a minute ago. Relief personnel aren't scheduled to arrive for four days."

"_Trained_ relief personnel," Beverly reminded him. "There's a huge difference between someone who's trained and licensed and a hyperactive security chief with a death wish and rudimentary medical training—at best—who would rather be anyplace else in this universe than in Sickbay."

"My point precisely," Picard replied. "Lt. Yar has combat medical training, and can be well-utilized for minor problems. However, I don't think she has a death wish, at all."

"You aren't just punishing her, you're punishing me, too, sir!" Crusher said.

"She's under orders to do whatever you deem suitable, based on her training and also on the injury restrictions that you placed on her. And sometimes you can be pleasantly surprised, if you give someone a fair chance."

Crusher took a breath to protest again, but opted to hold it, instead. This was going nowhere. "Yes, sir," she said.

"Dismissed to your new challenge, in your overwhelmed department."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, and returned—quickly—to Sickbay.

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, sickbay, 2200 hours**

Where Jean-Luc Picard was irritated at his security chief, Will Riker was positively furious. He arrived just after Picard's pronouncement that she would be stuck in Sickbay, for awhile.

"You mind telling me what the hell you were doing taking on a Level 10 by yourself?" Will practically hissed at her, so infuriated that the arteries at his temples were standing out from his flushed face. She still wasn't allowed to sit up, so she had no choice but to either take her licks, or pretend to be sleeping.

_Oh boy, don't mess with him, _Tasha thought to herself. _He's not kidding, this time._

"I wanted to simulate hand-to-hand combat in a terr—," she began, describing that she'd programmed a scenario based on what she was likely to face in a hostage rescue on Sora.

"I think Dr. Crusher's right," he remarked. "Maybe you do have a death wish."

"I don't have a death wish!" she protested, louder than she'd intended. Others in sickbay turned to look at her. "

"Get some sleep," Will said, backing up, still angry at her. "Enjoy your assignment here. I needed you to be on that mission because you survived an insurgent takeover on Turkana, and that's what we're trying to avoid on Sora. You didn't just screw up, you let me down, and you're letting down an entire population that could have benefited from your experience and your advice about how they can avoid becoming another Turkana. I'll be leading the away mission and Ensign Liang will be taking your place while you're in here. Have fun with that."

"Be careful, sir," she remarked, her face flushing again. A sudden sense of deep uneasiness spread through her about the Sora mission. Ordinarily, she and one of her officers would have flanked Riker and anyone else on a hazardous mission, but now the _Enterprise_ was down its security chief.

"Look who's talking," Will snapped. As he turned to leave, he fired one, last missile at her. "_Don't_ call me."

* * *

**Sickbay, 0100 hours**

On a Galaxy-class starship, Sickbay took up a good portion of Deck 12, sharing that level with biological sciences labs and departments. By 2300 hours, the lights throughout Sickbay's patient care areas were dimmed so patients could get some rest. All but the most critical of patients had restricted visitors at this time, and the adjacent labs and biological sciences areas also located on Deck 12 had a skeleton staff. Personnel numbers quadrupled on Deck 12 during the day.

Lately, their numbers had shifted. A total of 8 personnel had been transferred off the ship, including six Sickbay personnel. But only one nurse had arrived to replace them. Dr. Crusher had assigned Ensign Nurse Diego Martinez to dayshift to give him time to acclimate and orient to a galaxy-class sickbay.

Suravi Bhat, an advanced-practice nurse who had been part of the rescue mission to retrieve Riker and Yar from Earth, had transferred to night shift at the request of Beverly Crusher to fill staffing gaps that came up when Admiral Quinn and Lt. Com. Remmick visited the ship two weeks earlier, and now, she was dragging.

Bhat had never worked nights, but already liked the relative independence it offered. Sickbay wasn't as crowded. There were only two physicians on duty at night, and as an AP nurse, she had an extended scope of practice. She liked the autonomy, but wasn't fond of the hours or the lack of interaction with other _Enterprise _staff, especially one in particular who was assigned to days. He had been so sweet, even stopping by Sickbay after his own shift just to say 'hi'.

"So, what are you smiling about?" the voice came from a darkened patient care area, from Tasha Yar's bed. She was wide awake, and had noticed Bhat grinning subconsciously. Lt. Yar was allowed finally to turn her head, but wasn't cleared to sit up, yet.

"Still can't sleep?" Bhat said.

"I'm just thinking too much," Tasha stated, outright. "It would really help if I could get up and move around."

_Nice try,_ Bhat thought. "If you stood up now, you'd have a headache as a reward," she responded. "Your cerebral spinal fluid is almost at 100 percent, but the membranes still are irritated. There is some minor swelling on the left side of your brain, and it must recover on its own. Most likely your circadian rhythm was thrown off by the injury, also."

"So, you were grinning. . ."

"Yes, I was," Bhat said.

"Were you grinning about the same thing I'd heard the rumor about?"

Bhat stared at her. "I have a rumor?" she asked. Bhat didn't know whether to feel honored that people cared, or horrified that people were into her business.

"A couple of days ago, I saw Julio Barajas with the same grin on his face during a lull at tactical comm," Tasha remarked.

"Was he really?" Bhat asked, her eyes alight with adolescent-level anticipation, hoping to hear that someone else _really_ was interested in her. "What did he say about it?"

"Nothing," Tasha replied. "Just daydreaming. He didn't need to say anything, and frankly, he's too much of a gentleman to say much about it."

"Yes, I think so," Bhat replied. "So, we have a rumor?"

"It's not a secret," Tasha assured her. "I think it's great!"

"I'm glad you think so," Bhat replied, glancing at the readings on the biobed. "At about 0300 hours, we can allow you to sit up for a 10 minutes at a time. If you don't have any vertigo or headache, you'll be able to move around."

"Sounds like a plan," Tasha replied.

* * *

**Sickbay, 0630 hours**

The vertigo had abated by 0330 hours, so Tasha was allowed to walk around Sickbay, although she was tired enough by then to sleep. The immobilizer wasn removed from her arm about an hour ago, and it had healed well. She still had some numbness to her fourth and fifth finger, which was normal for an ulnar nerve injury. Sensation would return in time, Dr. Selar told Tasha.

Dr. Crusher wouldn't allow Tasha to leave sickbay, and she was relegated to shower in sickbay's locker facilities. She ordered up her regular uniform to wear that day, even though she'd be in sickbay, amidst a sea of blue uniforms, plus a few green uniforms from the biosciences division also located on Deck 12.

Deanna Troi stopped by Sickbay as Tasha was in the shower at 0615 hours.

"How is she doing?" Troi asked Suravi Bhat.

Bhat kept her voice low. "Embarrassed, but philosophical," Bhat replied. "She's viewing her temporary assignment as an opportunity to learn more. I think she has more aptitude than she gives herself credit for. She has good instincts."

Troi nodded. Bhat didn't need to say much more. Natasha Yar had taken care of Will Riker when he'd sustained serious burns on his hands and arms while they were stranded in the 21st century. She'd also bailed him out when he'd become inebriated one evening just before they timewarped back to the 21st century, literally hauling him up the stairs to their apartment and treating a sprained ankle he'd sustained while wobbling out of a bar that evening.

And those were just the bail-outs that Bhat _knew_ about.

Troi nodded in agreement to Bhat's assessment. "I'll stop by later in the shift."

"I'll be unconscious by then, probably," Bhat replied. "I get off duty at 0700."

"I thought you were on dayshift," Deanna said, now aware that the fatigue she sensed from Bhat didn't necessarily mean she wasn't a morning person. It meant that Bhat had been up all night, and really wanted to give report to her relief, then be relieved of duty so she could trudge back to her quiet cabin and collapse into bed.

"When the reinforcements arrive, I will be back on dayshift!" Bhat replied.

"You seem excited for reasons that aren't entirely work-related," Deanna pressed.

She couldn't just sense it, she'd seen it. Suravi Bhat unconsciously smiled, because she had been spending quite a bit of her off-duty time with Julio Barajas, a security officer who had also been on the Away Mission traveling through time to rescue _Enterprise_ officers stranded in the 21st century. Barajas was a security officer, but his nature was gentle. His strengths tended to run more with communications than with cracking heads. He seemed to Deanna to be a good match to Bhat, who was one of the least combative individuals aboard the ship. She could sense similar thought processes and compatibility, and little of the usual nervousness evident to her when people began dating.

Bhat's dark features flushed a bit. "Well, I'm seeing someone who works days, so this makes things easier," she admitted.

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, Sickbay, 0645 hours**

Shift change was going on, with nurses and technicians filling each other in on how the night shift went. The face-to-face report left Tasha out of the mix, and with nowhere to sit down, since her bed already had been cleaned and was ready for the next patient. She found the only chair available: One of the consultation chairs set up in front of Dr. Crusher's desk.

There wasn't much to look at in the small office. Dr. Crusher liked plants, and they were everywhere, trailing from pots mounted in corners and on the walls, interspersed between various pieces of diagnostic equipment that had been neatly stowed away until it was necessary.

Like many physicians, Beverly Crusher kept stacks of reading material available to visitors to her office. Quickly bored by looking at walls and plants, Tasha perused the series of journal discs left sitting on a side table, and popped one into a tablet-sized, digital reader. She wasn't someone who read technical journals, but at least she could comprehend part of what was being discussed in these articles. Medicine, she kind of understood; engineering and math, not so much.

"Good morning, lieutenant," Crusher said, sweeping past enroute to her desk.

"Good morning," Tasha had replied.

"Enjoying your reading?"

Tasha shrugged. She wasn't enjoying it, but it was something to do.

"All right," Crusher said, opting to break the ice. "I know you don't want to be a pain in my ass, and I don't want you to be a pain in my ass, either. We're bound to have a few of those come in for treatment, though."

"Convenient timing," Tasha said. "I'm glad I'm reading this article."

Crusher stared at her. "What do mean?"

"The _GI Journal_," Tasha replied, her expression impassive. "Some article about rectal bleeding."

Beverly Crusher tried her best to avoid the inevitable (but inappropriate) smile in response to that quip, but finally gave up, shaking her head and looking down at the floor. She threw her hands up and sighed. "That's great, Tasha," she replied, a grin spreading across her face. Tasha had the 'sick sense of humor' thing down pat and her shift had barely begun. "When those patients come in, they're yours."

"Oh, thank you," Tasha replied, deadpan.

"Then I guess you're ready to go," Crusher said. "You'll be assigned to Diego Martinez. He's one of my newer nurses, but he's got a lot of field experience, so you'll be a good fit. And he'll be in the minor emergency track, today."

"Meaning. . ."

"Minor emergencies," Crusher said. "Lacerations, bumps and bruises, stuff like that."

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, First Officer's Log, Stardate 41480.3**

_We're enroute to the Sora system and should arrive within 20 hours, on a rescue mission. The system has been beset by civil conflict for centuries. _

_A training accident has left our security chief injured, and her recovery time unfortunately overlaps with our latest mission. I will be leading an away team to Sora to help smooth things over between the Sorian government and an insurgent faction that's been perpetrating acts of terrorism toward Sorian citizens, who elected to apply for Federation membership. Now that membership is being considered, terrorist acts have increased. Ordinarily, she and one of her officers would accompany Lt. Tirelli, Counselor Troi and I to a scheduled meeting between the Sorian government and a leader with the insurgent faction. _

_The planet's high iron ore content makes it impossible to beam directly into the negotiation chamber, which is located in a neutral part of the border. Instead, we will beam in and walk 500 yards into the caves, flanked by at least 20 Sorian guards. I'm especially concerned about snipers and land mines, since electromagnetic distortion and the iron ore soil will blunt our tricorder sensors. _

_I'm hopeful that the Sorian security detail will navigate us carefully. _

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, Sickbay, 0735 hours**

Until she was given the technician-level tour of sickbay, Tasha Yar had no idea how much stuff was crammed into sickbay. Every drawer was full of something, every tray of portable equipment meticulously kept stowed unless it was needed at that moment.

Space was at a premium in space.

"All potentially infectious waste goes in this receptacle," Martinez said, nodding. "Any body fluid is potentially infectious, so if it's wet and not yours, don't touch it without hand shields. It all goes in the biowaste."

"Where do I find those?" Tasha asked. She didn't understand why the outside coverings on every compartment couldn't be labeled with contents. It only made things more confusing. She felt like she was walking in circles, constantly pivoting and changing directions when she remembered that what she was looking for was actually over _there_, where she'd just come from, seeking the item she'd originally thought was over _here._

"Mounted on the wall beside every bed, and in every doorway. Those also are disposed of in the red chutes. Don't forget to hit the decon button, otherwise the waste will sit here, and smell horrible," Martinez said, then nodded in the direction of the door, where a Vulcan science officer stood with her young son, whom Tasha recognized as being one of the ship's preschoolers. The 3-year-old had a greenish-tinged cloth clamped around his left hand, and his intense expression said he was focusing on being Very Brave.

"Looks like we've got our first patient of the day," Martinez said. "Feel comfortable with vital signs?"

"Yes," Tasha's face brightened up. _They're letting me do things—easy things, but ANYTHING beats just sitting around._

"I'll grab the wound tray," Martinez said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Future's Present, Chapter 4**

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Captain's ready room, Stardate 41480.2**

Com. Will Riker had misgivings about his upcoming mission. It was a hunch, maybe, something he couldn't place. But he certainly didn't like what his intuition was telling him. It was a "don't go there" feeling.

"Sora is tactically important," Picard reminded him, as they sat in the captain's ready room. "Their dilithium mines are of great value to the Federation."

"The Sorian insurgents seem to believe their government has sold-out their society, and that the Federation influence could mean the end of its uniqueness and the beginning of homogenization," Riker replied.

He'd read the manifest and was preparing for what were likely to be tense negotiations between the Sorian government and the insurgent leaders. Will Riker would be there to mediate. In addition to Counselor Deanna Troi and two security officers, he would bring with him Lt. Giordano Tirelli, a communications officer and an expert in the legal and organizational issues for worlds joining the Federation.

Picard stared at him. "How much did Lt. Yar tell you about her homeworld of Turkana?"

"Enough that I see some dangerous parallels," Will said, not deviating his gaze from Picard's.

"That is precisely why we are answering their distress call," Picard replied, knowing that Natasha Yar had, in all likelihood, told Will Riker more about Turkana than most scholars knew about it.

"The fall of Turkana isn't a well-known situation because it was never a Federation territory," Picard added. "Perhaps if they had requested assistance earlier, the coup on the Turkanan government need never have happened. your knowledge of how bad it can get, plus your diplomatic expertise, will be put to a necessary test, Number One."

Picard stood up, and Will did the same. "Will, I want you and Counselor Troi as much research as you can about Sora, get a good night's sleep," Picard said. "Meet me in the ready room at 0600 tomorrow for a briefing with the entire team. Your beam-down time will be 0830 hours."

Will shook his head.

"What is is, Number One?"

"Oh, it's Tash—Lt. Yar," he muttered, still angry with her. She'd taken on a Level 10 martial arts workout and was still recovering—albeit by reassignment. She'd been scheduled to be dismissed from sickbay that morning. But Picard, hoping to deal with a staffing shortage and teach his security chief a lesson, had assigned her to cool her heels in sickbay until relief staffing would arrive in three days. "I wish she were with us. Her expertise with these matters—."

"No," Picard replied. "Dr. Crusher told me she's still having some issues with short-term memory loss, and reported that her reflexes in her left arm still are only at 90 percent. She needs to be 100 percent, and you know that. Memory loss of any degree could doom negotiations."

"What kind of memory loss?"

"Well, she's been scattering equipment all over sickbay, and forgetting where things are, not putting things away," Picard said. "Uncharacteristic."

Will couldn't keep from grinning, despite how hacked off he was at Tasha. "Actually, that sounds normal to me," he replied.

Picard's brow furrowed. "Really?"

"Really, sir," he replied. "I lived with her for 21 months. There were days our apartment looked like a bomb went off. I'm very organized, she leaves things where they've been tossed."

Now Picard found himself smiling, nodding at the dichotomy. While his first officer and security chief were stranded 350 years in the past, they'd eked out an existence, gotten on each others nerves, forced compromise and become good friends in the process. He'd had to call them on the proverbial carpet once, because their friendly antics were attracting the attention of ship's gossip hounds, and that was the last thing the _Enterprise_ needed. But after Starfleet Command sent Admiral Quinn and an abrasive Com. Remmick to stir their pot, Picard had come to an important realization. _Perhaps I was too harsh,_ he thought. _I'm from the old school of Starfleet, where families were left behind and friendships led to discipline issues._

The _Enterprise_ was a starship, but Starfleet itself had changed, recognizing how important families were to personnel serving so far from home for years at a time. Picard's original pride at being named _Enterprise_ captain had been tempered when he learned that more than 220 of those aboard the ship would be civilians, some of them children. He'd implored Will Riker to help him "deal with the children" during their first mission together. Will hadn't quite understood Picard's discomfort, but followed orders nonetheless.

But now, Picard actually had grown accustomed to seeing children in the hallways, finding AWOL toys that had been dropped in corridors. Couples were everywhere. People seemed relaxed and genuinely enjoyed their off-duty time, and yet in spite of that, the crew still functioned like a well-oiled machine. Picard had been so convinced that close relationships would lead to disciplinary issues that he was surprised to find there were so few of them.

Picard hadn't been privy to the specific issues that Will Riker and Natasha Yar had lived through while on Earth, but knew Will well enough to understand that "leaving things where they've been tossed" had to have created friction.

"The Felix and Oscar of the _Enterprise_," Picard quipped.

Now Riker was confused. "Sir?"

"The theatrical production of The Odd Couple," Picard said. "North American. A neatly organized man becoming roommates with a complete slob. Very funny, highly recommended."

"Sounds familiar," Riker nodded. "If she's engaging in that behavior in sickbay, I'd say she's completely recovered."

"I'm going to defer to Dr. Crusher's wishes that we allow her more recovery time," Picard said._ Nice try, Will, _he thought.

"Yes, sir," Will said. "I know that. I just wish she'd thought about that before she took on a Level 10, thought about the consequences, I mean."

"So do I," Picard nodded. "I suspect that the past two days have given her a lot to think about."

* * *

**Sickbay, 1430 hours**

Until her shift in Sickbay, Natasha Yar never knew so many people could be sick when they lived in such wonderful conditions . . . and seemingly _all_ at the same time. They came in with everything from stomach pain to lacerations to chemical burns from a spill in logistics. And then the sick kids started coming in.

Tasha had learned that morning that some medicinal treatment has less to do with scientific knowledge, and more with bedside manner. If patients didn't trust healthcare workers, they wouldn't get the healing they needed. Martinez seemed to have the touch. He often crouched down to eye level of every child that came in for anything, especially if they were hurt.

She tried that approach with the first of the nauseous kids, an 8-year-old human with a Vulcan-like, green pallor on his face and sweat beading on his brow. Her own face full of concern, Tasha innocently asked him to point with one finger where he felt the worst. The kid pointed at his stomach but said nothing.

"Do you feel like you need to throw up?" Tasha asked. It seemed like a logical, next question.

The boy's head began moving up and down, then he opened his mouth and sprayed a horizontal geyser of vomit all over her hands, her shirt sleeves, and the knees and lower legs of Tasha's uniform.

To his credit, Martinez was able to stifle a laugh, even as Tasha motioned to the now weeping child to sit down on an exam bed. Vomit was dripping from her fingers, and once she motioned toward a nearby exam bed, it began dripping everywhere.

_Note to self: Never ask THAT question unless a container is handy to catch the vomit,_ Tasha thought. _It had crossed my mind that he might puke, but I thought I had some time. Nope. Biggest mess I've ever seen. This kid took two steps inside Sickbay, and up came the chunks in huge quantities. He sprayed his breakfast over the main entrance, and some more in Fast Track. And that calculus teacher who thought the kid was faking feels pretty stupid right now. _Tasha had already showered and changed into a fresh uniform by the time the second student arrived, this one escorted by Lt. Louden Kendall, another member of the rescue team that retrieved Tasha and Will from the 21st century. He grinned widely at Tasha, having already heard the ship's gossip about Lt. Yar's penance in sickbay.

"I brought you some business," Kendall said. "How's Day One going for you?"

"Oh, it's been interesting," Tasha replied.

"Well, I think it's time to get the student population in here for an antiviral," Martinez muttered. He had already delivered a sample of the first patient's blood to Dr. Crusher, who had ordered up several hyposprays of antiviral to treat the entire student population . . . starting with their teacher, Lt. Kendall.

Despite how busy she was, Beverly Crusher had to laugh a bit at the unflappable security chief with vomit dripping from her fingers. Tasha didn't tell her about the liquor-induced puke-a-thons that happened on a nightly basis in the bar where she worked while she was stranded in the 21st century. But she mentioned it later to Martinez, who admittedly had imbibed his share of liquor while in nursing school. Serious about his profession but laid back enough to enjoy a good time, he still shook his head at how much people drank back in the 21st century.

"And it's no wonder they were in such poor health," he remarked. "Cirrhosis, kidney stones, kidney failure, anemic, thiamine-deficient. . .not to mention all the accidents they must have had while they were under the influence. It's a wonder they were healthy enough to have World War III."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Transporter Room 2**

Manifest of transporter passengers to Sora

Commander William Riker, First Officer of the _Enterprise_

Lt. Giordano Tirelli, Diplomatic and Communications specialist

Lt. Com. Deanna Troi, ship's counselor

Senior Ensign Sigge Norstrom, Security

Ensign Zhuo Liang, Security

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Sickbay**

Where Tasha's first shift working in sickbay revolved around what could be blown out of the top half of the gastrointestinal tract, her second began with an issue involving the other end.

An older gentleman hobbled into sickbay, hunched over in discomfort. Tasha assisted him onto an exam bed, took his vital signs, chatted him up, and learned that he was traveling aboard the _Enterprise_ enroute to the next starbase, where he would take over as a research fellow for the quadrant. He had lived on Luna for the past decade. Not used to traveling and not as young as he used to be, he found himself feeling ill for the past four days. An uncomfortably sleepless night led him to sickbay.

With Martinez assisting Dr. Selar with a minor surgical procedure, Tasha reported to Dr. Crusher, who glanced at the man's vitals and tricorder assessment . . . and then asked Tasha what she thought was wrong with the man.

"And don't use this," Crusher said, snagging the nearest medical tricorder from the adjacent counter. Tasha didn't know how to use it, anyway. "Use your five senses and your hands. What do you think is going on?"

"You a student?" the man asked.

"Oh, something like that," Tasha replied. "How long has your abdomen been this distended like this?"

"Since yesterday," he replied. "Couldn't even button my pants. I was afraid I'd lose 'em walking through the corridors. Would that have been horrible? All the schoolkids would've seen me in my skivvies."

Tasha found herself smiling in response, even as she felt of the man's swollen stomach. He tensed his muscles somewhat, but the abdomen remained soft except for some hard masses she could feel. She piled both hands atop each other, pressing her fingers gently against the man's swollen abdomen, sliding her hands around each corner and the center.

"That hurt?"

"Ah . . ," he said. "It doesn't hurt, it's just uncomfortable."

"And it doesn't matter where I push, it feels the same?"

"Yes, only more so lower," he replied. "I'm glad to be lying down."

Tasha nodded. "I'm glad you are, too," she said. "You looked like you were most uncomfortable when you were sitting up with your legs drawn up."

"So, am I gonna live?"

"I just have one more question," she asked. "Sir, when did you last take the time to sit down and have a bowel movement?"

_Well, that didn't take long,_ Crusher thought. _That's impressive._

"Uhh, well . . ," the man smiled as wryly as possible. "This type of travel really makes it difficult . . ."

"More than a week?"

"Probably," he admitted. "I think a few days more. Ten days, probably."

"Lieutenant," Beverly interjected. "What's your diagnosis?"

"Well," Tasha began, almost stammering. "It's outside my scope of practice to be diagnosing anything . . "

"And well, you get to diagnose today," the doctor pressed, challenging her. "It's good for you to step outside your comfort zone and learn something new. What do _you_ think is happening with this patient?"

_This is a trick question,_ Tasha thought. _This man is constipated. It's that simple. He's literally full of shit. It might also be something more, might be something exotic. But I think he just needs to unload and at this point, he needs our help to get things moving._

"Honestly, I think he's constipated," she finally said. "Badly so. It might indicate something else is going on, but he states no other symptoms until he began traveling."

"Oh I've been constipated before," the man remarked. "But never for this long, and never this bad. I tried drinking water, it didn't work."

"I don't think you're drinking enough water," Tasha said. "Your lips are dry. What else have you had to drink?"

"Lots of coffee," he replied. "I've got a research department to open when I get to the starbase and I want to hit the ground running."

"I think you've been running enough," Tasha said. "It's time to sit down on the toilet for awhile, let your body work the way it needs to."

Finally, Crusher pulled out the tricorder, glanced at the quick-read, and smiled. "You're right, lieutenant," she nodded. "He is not only constipated, he is very constipated. I'm not finding any fibrous obstructions or strictures, just an accumulation of bowel."

"Well, this is sufficiently embarrassing," the man muttered.

"I'm going to give you a mild painkiller, and then you're going to take a walk to the toilet over there in that room. Once you're sitting down, I'll administer a glucagon-based medication that will relax the smooth muscle tissue throughout your GI tract. It's an older medication, but I've found that it still works very well for these purposes. Would you like something to read while you're in the bathroom?"

"Yes, please," he replied. "Doesn't matter what it is. I read pretty much anything."

"I'll get some periodical discs uploaded to the reader in the bathroom."

"So, you're saying that I'm full of crap?" he asked in a teasing tone.

"That would be correct, sir," Beverly replied, smiling, putting one hand on his shoulder.

"Well, my ex-wife could have told you that!"

"Lieutenant, can you get those tapes set up in the bathroom?" Beverly said. "I'll be giving the glucagon only after he's comfortably seated."

"Understood," Tasha nodded.

"You did well," Crusher added. "So many new medical technicians automatically assume that every illness is serious or rare, and they forget the basic problems. Good job."

"Thank you," Tasha replied. "Great publication, that _GI Journal_."

As she prepared the bathroom, Tasha couldn't help but overhear Diego Martinez, showing a 9-year-old with a laceration how to scan her finger to check distal circulation.

"—red blood cells are like cargo ships," Martinez said. "They pick up the oxygen when they pass through the lungs, and then they haul it to wherever they're sent, and they can be sent anywhere that blood moves in the body. In this case, these cells are going to the tips of your fingers. And it looks like they're reaching those capillaries . . . watch here. You see that wave pass across the membrane? That's an oxygen molecule. And now the hemoglobin moves back up to the heart, to be pumped back into the pulmonary system to pick up more oxygen for delivery somewhere else."

As she listened while she worked to clean the exam room for the next patient, Tasha found herself overwhelmed with a sudden sense of dread. She often got hunches that she couldn't explain, like a premonition something was about to happen. She didn't believe in the supernatural, but she'd learned to trust those hunches when she had them, especially the bad one that washed over her at exactly 0800 hours, when the away team was beaming down to Sora.

* * *

**On the Planet Sora**

The _Enterprise_ away team beamed onto a platform in an area where the planet's high iron content didn't interfere with transport. They were greeted by four police officers who stated they would escort the visitors to the

Deanna immediately sensed dread, bordering mostly on fear, from the Sorian police officers. They seemed nervous, hypervigilant, mostly hoping nothing happened to these visitors only because they hadn't been trained to deal with anything like that. The ranking officer seemed genuinely relieved to have Federation personnel aid Sora in the move toward Federation membership, and began leading the group up an open, rock stairway toward the presidential palace, where negotiations would take place.

The stairway was about 100 meters long, interspersed by landings and bordered on the left by a giant, rock wall. Sora was a dry planet, but the iron ore was interspersed with ribbons of rust from its groundwater. Rusty rivulets ran down the wall, spreading across the otherwise immaculately swept rock stairs. Nonetheless, shards of rusted metal disintegrated beneath their boots as they walked up towards the presidential palace.

Both security ensigns already were scowling that their tricorders were rendered inoperative by all the magnetic interference around them, and the iron soil made it next to impossible to detect anything that might be buried beneath it. They also didn't like that the stairs were narrow, with barely enough room for two people to walk side-by-side without coming too close to the edge. The crumbling, 1.25 meter retaining wall didn't comfort Deanna much. She'd never liked heights, so she walked closer to the high wall, behind Tirelli.

_Nothing's routine,_ Will remembered Tasha telling her security troops during one of the first field training sessions she instructed, barely a week after the _Enterprise_ completed its mission to Farpoint Station. _Don't ever go into an away mission believing that it's routine. That's an arrogant attitude, and it could get you killed. Be vigilant, and be ready for anything._

Ensign Liang took point up front, located between and just behind two Sorian police officers. Will was behind her, and the group began climbing those imposing stairs. They were steeper than they looked, and barely halfway up Will's legs began to burn with exertion. He glanced up ahead, past Liang, seeing with relief that the spires of the Sorian presidential palace were closer than they were before. They would be at the top of the hill shortly. Will glanced back over his shoulder to see how the rest of the team was doing.

He envied Norstrom, taking up the rear but looking as if he could sprint past all of them and beat them with time to spare to the top. The security officer enjoyed cross country skiing, a sport that Will found grueling but suited Norstrom well for circumstances like this one. Tirelli was breathing hard, as was Deanna Troi, who sensed Will's discomfort and returned a knowing, comforting look.

Deanna's eyes had barely met Will's when Liang unknowingly placed her foot on a pressure-sensing explosive device hidden within one of the steps.

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, sickbay, 0811 hours**

Picard's voice literally burst through Sickbay's overhead comm system, which wasn't like him. He normally would have called Dr. Crusher directly, but this situation required the immediate attention of everyone in the trauma suite. His message was terse, urgent, bordering on shouting. _Explosion, Sora, casualties . . . prepare for direct beam-in to Sickbay._

"Computer, trauma team activation!" Crusher said, also raising her voice. Medical personnel across the ship who were on call for situations like this one were being alerted by combadge as she scrambled the personnel already in sickbay. She knew they'd have seconds. "Pull the trauma kits and ready the life support drapes! We've got casualties coming in. Crusher to Picard."

"Picard here," he replied on the comm. "Doctor, expect four casualties from an improvised explosive device."

_Which means they're critical,_ Beverly thought. _If they're beaming right in, they're in bad shape._ Tasha was standing beside her, her face both flushed with the adrenalin surge within her, and from the grim reality of what probably had happened on the planet.

"Tasha, I'll need you to handle th—," Crusher began, but her voice was cut off by the unmistakable sound of the transporter beams cutting through the controlled cacophany of a trauma alert in sickbay. But they were materializing in the middle of the floor. No one was on a bed.

_They were beamed up fast, without verifying beds,_ Tasha thought, instinctively moving closer to one of the upright beams. _If they're upright, they're probably walking wounded, and those will be mine, probably._ Two were upright, two others were lower to the ground.

"There should be five," Tasha blurted out to no one in particular. "Where's—."

The two-meter-tall frame materializing beside her became recognizable as Will Riker. Crusher was already in position near the figures that had either crouched or had fallen to the ground before the transporter beam whisked them away. One was Deanna Troi, the other wasn't immediately recognizable to Tasha. Martinez moved in beside the other standing figure materializing across the room, and Tasha recognized wide shoulders and bearded face of one of her senior security ensigns, Sigge Norstrom.

Crusher already had her tricorder pointed at the materializing figures on the floor, and realized they were stable. She next pointed the tricorder at the figure of Sigge Norstrum. Will Riker had already materialized by the time Crusher whipped around to scan him, but by then, it was obvious he'd sustained extremely critical injuries.

The beam completed its cycle around Will, and as he turned toward the closest person to him—Tasha—opened his mouth to talk, and blood began streaming from it.

"Oh my God—," Tasha said, reaching toward him.

His uniform was shredded, his face bleeding from bits of shrapnel. He tried to turn away from her but staggered, falling to his knees as Tasha pulled him backwards so he didn't fall forward onto his face. He lay back in her lap, looking up at her as he choked on blood pouring from his mouth and nose. He was trying to say something, but no sound came out. His lungs had completely filled with blood from innumerable shrapnel wounds across his chest, his abdomen, his legs . . . blood began pooling beneath him, and he began to lose consciousness as he felt Tasha's arms looping beneath his, intent on hoisting him onto a bed. He could hear voices arguing . . . _Tasha, Crusher, was that Norstrom? Norstrom made it. Where's Deanna?_

He was being physically picked up. Someone had his legs, he didn't know who, didn't care. He needed to breathe but he couldn't. Hypoxia took over and a sudden adrenaline surge forced his head back in a last attempt to get even a small puff of air, but was only aware of the heavy, tangy, saline-laden blood flowing from his mouth, running down the side of his neck. The last thing he saw was the aquamarine of Tasha's concerned eyes. She was saying something but nothing registered to him, anymore.

"Tasha, move!" Crusher said, barking orders to any nurse and doctor within earshot. Here was their most critical patient, the one who'd beamed in standing up. Will had slipped into cardiac arrest, and a quick glance at the biobed readings told her all she needed to know. Unless she could clear his lungs and seal the massive, internal bleeding within a couple of minutes . . .

"We've got him," Crusher said, literally pushing her aside. "Help get those two onto beds on the other side of the room. They're stable. Go!"

Tasha stumbled away from the bed as medical team members surrounded Will Riker. Their practiced hands moved quickly, efficiently, encasing Will's now lifeless body into a resuscitation drape that had surgical capability. An off-duty nurse who seemed to appear out of nowhere—still in her pajamas—had scrubbed in to assist with the immediate surgery needed to save Will's life.

"Establish collateral circulation and stasis," Crusher said, and then there were other voices, all over the place. Will was now completely surrounded by people. Tasha turned away, her uniform front and sleeves stained with his blood.

She should have deconned before touching another patient. But that was the last thing she could think of, because Deanna Troi still was on the floor, coughing up blood, her eyes blood-red from capillaries that had burst within each globe due to the concussive force of the blast. Suravi Bhat was at her side, having just arrived to the trauma team page on her combadge.

"Tasha, help me get her to a bed," Bhat said. "She's got pulmonary contusions and a collapsed lung. Go ahead and set up an oxygen infusion."

"Yes," Tasha said, numbness coursing through her. Deanna was looking at her through brimming eyes. She knew. She probably could sense that Will was clinically dead, and that Tasha was doing everything in her own power to hold herself together so she could aid in patient care.

"I felt him die," Deanna said.

"They're working on him," Tasha said. "Dr. Crusher and probably a dozen techs are working on him, they're doing everything they can for him." _Sounds comforting,_ Tasha thought. _She probably doesn't believe a word of it. Is my voice shaking? I need to get a goddamn grip . ._

An anguished cry of pain rose from the bed where Tirelli lay, not yet sedated. Even from 5 meters away, Tasha could tell from the bloodsoaked, anatomically impossible angle of Tirelli's right leg that he had at least a femur fracture. A hemorrhage control field had been placed around it, but it wasn't set, nor even realigned, because he had other issues. Selar was rapidly running another stabilization device over Tirelli's chest. She was directing Martinez to pull traction on Tirelli's shattered leg to lessen pain from the ends of the fractured bone that ground together as the muscles in his thigh began spasming.

"Picard to Lt. Yar," Tasha's combadge crackled, barely perceptible over the noise, even as she located the oxygen infusion tray for Deanna. Bhat had adjusted the bed so she could sit up at a 45-degree angle, where Deanna felt more comfortable. She had already relieved pressure that had been building within Deanna's injured right lung, and had given her a mild painkiller.

Tasha tapped her combadge with one of her hands, leaving more blood smeared across her uniform. "Yes, sir."

"Status."

_Status? It's a gigantic charlie foxtrot in here. Where do I start?_

"Sir, all four away team members who were beamed into sickbay are undergoing treatment," she replied, then numbly stated what she'd been ignoring for the past two minutes. "They're coding Will Riker."

"I'm on my way down," he replied.

Tasha glanced at Norstrom, leaning his hands against an adjacent bed, attempting to cough out the acrid smoke from the explosion. He saw her approaching and straightened up, wanting to appear tough and all together for his supervisor, even if she'd been temporarily busted to sickbay.

"I'm all right," he said.

"There should be five," Tasha said, transitioning from her caregiver tone to that of accountability. "Sigge . . ."

He looked up at her, his smudged face having been sandblasted with iron pellets, and shook his head. "Zhuo Liang," he said, then stopped, beset by another coughing fit. Tasha's brow furrowed at first, then realizes that Ensign Liang had been part of the away team, probably on point. And she hadn't been beamed directly in, which was an ominous sign.

"Look at me," she commanded. "You sit on that bed and stay there. You may be stable but I don't want you walking around until someone who knows how to use a medical tricorder can check you out."

"Lieut—," he protested. Norstrom was like that. He hated being told to sit still. It wasn't in his nature. They were alike in this respect, and Tasha got that. But she couldn't take the chance that he'd fall over in an isolated area of sickbay because he was too stubborn to get himself checked out.

"Sit, right now!" she shouted, and he immediately complied with her order. She tapped her combadge, again. "Yar to Picard."

"Yes, Natasha, go ahead," Picard replied, and that threw her for a loop. Picard rarely addressed her by her first name. Something was very, very wrong. "I'm on my way down."

"Accountability request for location of Ensign Zhuo Liang."

"KIA," Picard responded, and she could hear the lift doors opening in the background, heard the corridor commotion. Picard already was on Deck 12. He would be striding into the trauma suites within the minute. "Beamed directly to stasis."

Tasha exhaled, stunned. "Thank you, sir."

Within a minute, Tasha became engrossed with helping Bhat to stabilize Deanna Troi that she didn't notice Picard standing next to the resuscitation team handling Will Riker

"I only need to know two things, Doctor," Picard said. "Status on each patient, and status on Lt. Yar's much needed return to the bridge."

"Riker is critical, Tirelli is serious," Crusher said in one breath, then looked across the suite at the less-injured of the away team. "Troi and Norstrom are more stable, but you'll need to get a more direct report from Suravi Bhat. I've been too busy here to—oh, dammit, get me some plasma substitute now!"

"I need Lt. Yar back on the bridge," Picard said. "I can use Tasha here, but she can be released if you need her there."

"Thank you, doctor," Picard said, then strode across sickbay to where Deanna Troi offered him a quiet smile. Tasha was across the aisle, taking vital signs on Norstrom, whose coughing had increased in frequency.

"Hello, sir," Deanna rasped.

"Counselor," he smiled back, then turned to Bhat. "How is she doing?"

"She is stable," Bhat said. "She'll be here probably for the remainder of the shift. She has numerous pulmonary contusions, two cracked ribs and a pneumothorax...her lung collapsed. Right now she needs to rest."

"Understood," Picard said.

"Sir, I do want to say that Tasha Yar has been a big asset to our team, even if she didn't want to be here," Bhat said. "Especially with this incident, especially with Ensign Norstrom. She's the only one in here who could get him to sit down. He's stable but he has inhalation trauma and some pulmonary contusions, as well."

"I'm pleased to hear that she was helpful," Picard said. "But I'm going to need her back on the bridge. We have a serious security issue developing on the planet below."

"Yes, sir," Bhat said, then called Tasha back to Troi's bedside. "How is he?"

"Stubborn," she replied. "But he's staying put."

""Good," Bhat said. "Thank you. He's going to be put for awhile."

"Lieutenant," Picard said. "Due to the circumstances, Dr. Crusher officially has released you from sickbay. I need you back on the bridge."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"Report there in half an hour, after you clean up and change your uniform," he added, and she nodded in response, forcing her mind to re-adjust to the regular duties awaiting her. I can tell this was difficult, but I need you to stay sharp and intense. I chose you as security chief because I know you are capable of doing that, especially with the situation brewing on the planet. Can I count on you?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, without delay.

* * *

Though Tasha had taken the shortest route possible between sickbay and her quarters, her bloodstained uniform drew several gasps from others in the corridor, who fortunately didn't ask any questions.

She showered quickly, forcing back the lump that threatened to rise in her throat as the warm water coursed over her. If she lost it now, she'd never be able to do her job. Within another ten minutes she was dressed, her short hair mostly dry. As she sat on her couch to pull on her boots, her cat jumped up for an ear scratch.

Geordi LaForge had stopped by the night before, and this morning, to order food for the cat, a large, shaggy male that Tasha had named KC. She'd adopted him as a kitten when she and Will were stranded in Kansas City. She'd brought him back with her, and now he lived in her cabin, swatting at starlight dancing across the windows as the ship warped through space. He'd taken to shredding the arm of one of her chairs until she'd finally ordered up a floor-to-ceiling scratching post with several levels, which he thoroughly enjoyed.

But since she'd been gone, KC hadn't touched it. He'd slept on her bed, and now he crawled into her lap. KC didn't really care that she needed to be somewhere else. She was there now.

She scratched his ears. "You don't have any idea what's happened this morning, do you?" Tasha said. "And you don't care."

Unconsciously, she sat back against the back of the couch, holding the purring cat close to her, allowing herself 30 seconds to hold something warm close to her before she reported to her tactical station.

Will and KC hadn't gotten along, at all. KC had shed all over his pillow, hacked hairballs into one of his shoes. Will glared at the cat, and the cat glared right back—sometimes even hissed. They'd come to a stalemate of sorts during their last weeks in the apartment before she and Will returned to the 24th century, where everything was supposed to be just fine.

_Please let him be all right,_ she thought, then caught herself. _Holy shit, was I praying? Maybe I'm finally flipping out. Since when have I prayed about anything?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Future's Present, Chapter 5**

* * *

_**USS Enterprise,**_** Stasis morgue**

Even after such a tragic shift, Lt. Natasha Yar was grateful for smaller blessings, both of which had to do with the quick actions of the _Enterprise_'s new transporter chief, Miles O'Brien. His decisions had saved Commander Riker's life—though he still was critical—and spared sickbay of another casualty with horrifically fatal injuries.

Just 10 minutes after the _Enterprise'_s away team beamed to Sora, an improvised explosive device detonated at their feet. Having maintained transport tracking on all three _Enterprise_ crew members, it wasn't hard for O'Brien to lock on to each person's signal, even through all the interference from the iron ore that made up the planet's topsoil.

As each crew member was enveloped by the transporter beam and yanked from the planet surface, O'Brien glanced at their departure vital signs made a lifesaving, triage-based decision: He beamed four, surviving officers directly into sickbay. Lt. Giordano Tirelli was seriously injured but would live with urgent level medical care. But Com. Will Riker was so critically injured that O'Brien fully expected to hear an announcement of the first officer's death within the hour. Counselor Deanna Troi and Senior Ensign Sigge Norstrom were stable, but had sustained moderate inhalation and pulmonary injuries. They likely would leave sickbay later that evening.

O'Brien had solemnly rerouted Ensign Zhuo Liang, who had been "lethaled" by the transporter's triage system. O'Brien glanced at the readings, and instantly knew the biomedical sensors were correct. He wasn't going to override this one, and beam a dead officer into sickbay when two other officers with a chance to live had just been sent there. Tirelli had a fair chance, Riker had a slim chance, Troi and Norstrom had a good chance.

Liang had no chance, at all.

Officially, she still had a heartbeat when the transporter beam enveloped what was left of her. Seconds earlier, she had stepped on an IED she hadn't been able to detect through all the iron ore interference. She had sustained unsurvivable, catastrophic injuries, though her failing heart didn't know that, yet. As she materialized into the morgue's stasis field on Deck 12, O'Brien took one last glance at her vital signs, knowing he was doing the right thing. Her heart rate increased as the hypoxic cardiac muscle strained to pump what little blood remained in her when O'Brien remotely activated the stasis field, and stopped that process cold—literally.

O'Brien had always been a bit creeped out about beaming to the morgue people who weren't quite dead, yet. The cardiac muscle's built-in electrical conduction system kept the heart beating (though not always effectively) for several minutes after sudden, traumatic death. Tasha Yar knew this, too, and both knew what would happen as soon as the stasis field was shut off so Lt. Yar could do what she needed to do.

"Oh, dammit," Tasha shook her head, exasperated at the label affixed to the body bag. Already, there was a problem, and she hadn't even uncovered Liang's body, yet. "Can I get this re-entered into the computer?" she asked. "She's listed here as Ensign Zhuo, but Zhuo is her first name."

Tasha wondered fleetingly how the ensign's first and last name could have gotten transversed, but then it occurred to her that some Starfleet officers of Earth's Asian descent chose the traditional order of their name, bucking the Federation ideal of first name first, then last name. Ensign Liang evidently was one of them, because the implanted chip at the base of her neck read 'Ensign Liang Zhuo'. The officer who had been in charge of covering the body after Liang's beam-in had read the computer readout from that chip, assumed Zhuo was her last name and printed out a label for the body bag saying as much.

"I'll reprint it," O'Brien said, turning to the computer console.

"Thanks," Tasha replied, forcing nonchalance as she uncovered what was left of Ensign Liang. She could tell from the shape of the bag lying atop the body that there wasn't much body left.

Liang wasn't going to be recognizable, even to her family. Her chest and face had been shredded by shrapnel. By the way her head rested on the slab, it was evident that the back of Liang's head was gone, torn away by the explosion. Some of the wounds on her chest still oozed, thanks to her heart, now free of stasis, finally going through its last, agonal beats before fibrillating into death.

"Where are her legs?" Tasha asked. Except for a chunk of what must have been her liver and a flap of diaphragm muscle, everything below the ensign's ribcage was gone. The muscles of her lower left arm had been blasted away from both her radius and ulna, themselves shattered , barely held together by remaining tissue.

"They were in too many pieces, too far from the blast site," O'Brien replied, his voice soft but matter-of-fact. There was no easy way to describe the pattern he'd seen on the transporter sensor: The shredded remains of Liang's lower body had been blown in every direction from the IED. Several pieces of her body had been found on both Riker and Tirelli. At least two pieces of shrapnel went through Liang with such force that they also wounded Riker.

An instant, gruesome death.

_This could have been me,_ Tasha thought. She dared not utter it aloud. _If I'd been down there on point, this would have been me. _

No longer held back by the stasis field, blood began dripping off the side of the slab. Tasha sighed, ordered restablishment of the stasis field, and used a new skill she'd learned in sickbay. She located a medical tricorder, and programmed it with a beam to clean up biohazardous goo, and removed the coagulated blood from the floor.

As she completed the cleanup, Tasha was numbly aware of Captain Picard's voice piping through the ship's comm system. O'Brien was being ordered to upload those transporter records to his ready room.

"Yes, sir," O'Brien replied. "I'm leaving stasis right now."

"Thank you, chief," Picard said. "Picard out."

O'Brien paused beside Tasha, finally placing one hand on her shoulder as she crouched beside the stasis table. "You all right, lieutenant?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm right behind you," she replied, though she didn't look up. "Just cleaning this blood up before I leave. Thanks, chief."

"Anytime."

_Maybe it should have been me, _Tasha thought as O'Brien left the stasis room._ Maybe this means I've got it coming. _

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, bridge**

The Sorian government immediately organized a counterstrike against the insurgents, becoming terrorists themselves in a flash of fatigue and revenge. This effectively polarized the Sorian people, who either angrily denounced the revenge or eagerly approved it.

But already, there were more, fringe groups breaking off from the Sorian's main electorate that had overwhelmingly voted for Federation membership. News services recorded several protests across the cities, the largest one just outside the presidential palace

"If this is what comes with Federation membership, I want NO part of it!" screamed one woman into a state news camera.

On the _Enterprise_, Jean-Luc Picard shook his head as the bridge crew watched news coverage of the attack against their personnel, though they weren't reporting the conditions of the _Enterprise_ crew members affected by the blast. That hadn't been released, yet. One police officer accompanying the group also had been killed by the IED. "Their society already is disintegrating, based on the actions of a few."

"It's hardly unprecedented," Tasha said. "This is the third time I've seen this. I saw it on Turkana when I was a child. I saw it on Earth in the 21st century when the United States became so polarized. And now here, only here, it's happening fast. They aren't even giving these issues time to fester."

"And that may be in our favor, lieutenant," Picard said. "It's always been easier to negotiate a cease fire with new conflict than it is to appease centuries of turmoil. But, if Sora truly is a democracy, then the Sorian people must decide what they will and will not tolerate, and their legal system must back them up."

"Sir," Tasha said, knowing Picard's intent. "I must officially protest your beaming into this location. It's clearly not secure."

"So noted, lieutenant," he replied. "You will be investigating the IED incident."

"Yes, sir."

"Assemble two additional security officers, minimal compliment," Picard added. "One for you, and one for me. If we run into problems, it will take everything the transporter has to beam us past that interference, so the fewer people we send down there, the better. Lt. Com. Data and Lt. LaForge are looking at options to detect explosives buried within iron ore. However, they've come to an impasse due to the planet's laws on radiation emissions."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, sickbay**

Tasha went easily to Deck 12, but still hesitated before walking into sickbay. She knew Will had survived his resuscitation and initial surgery, but could tell from the CCU drape still across him that he was still considered critical. He looked pale, almost the color of the CCU drape, and that wasn't good. But she was comforted to see who was standing beside him.

Dressed in a light robe given to patients who wished to move around sickbay when they were cleared to do so, Deanna Troi stood next to Will's bed, her small hand holding his motionless one. She felt Tasha's presence before she saw or heard her, and turned toward Tasha and smiled.

More at ease, Tasha approached the bed. "How are you doing?" she asked, trying to keep her voice low.

"Much better," Deanna replied. "Dr. Crusher actually _wants_ me to move around. She said it helps my lungs expand appropriately, taking full breaths from exertion. I'll be dismissed this evening."

"I'm glad you're all right," Tasha replied.

"Thank you for your help," Deanna said.

Tasha shook her head. "I didn't do much."

"Other than picking me up off the floor, helping me onto a bed, sitting me up so I could breathe, and talking to me as the darkest parts of my mind imagined the worst for Will Riker," Deanna said. "Give yourself some credit."

"How is Wi—Commander Riker doing?" Tasha asked. She could see he still was critical, on life support. Thankfully, someone had cleaned the massive amounts of blood from his face, and removed the blood-saturated uniform. A privacy drape covered his lower abdomen to his knees, and the CCU drape covered his chest and abdomen. Clearly, it had been left in place in case of complications.

"He's got a long road ahead," Deanna replied, looking back at Will, who lay sedated with an oral airway device peeking out from between his closed lips and running to an oxygen infuser mounted alongside the bed. Since he was deeply unconscious and needed a special mix of humidified oxygen to aid his healing lungs, the infuser fed it directly with positive pressure, which also prevented his lungs from collapsing, again.

Four drainage systems led from his chest, each carefully measuring how much fluid and blood was lost as the wounds healed from lifesaving surgery to retrieve what had been blasted into him during the IED detonation. Each item attached to Will contained communication devices linked in to the life support system, which in turn adjusted automatically the amount of fluid and blood substitute he would receive. It automatically corrected his fluids and electrolytes, as well.

Will Riker had sustained 78 separate shrapnel wounds, 6 of which would have been lethal within 5 minutes had he not been beamed directly to sickbay. Twenty-five additional pieces penetrated his chest and abdomen, and one severed the femoral artery on his left leg. His aorta was nicked and trachea nearly severed by the same chunk of shrapnel, which was why he bled so profusely from his mouth and nose.

His spleen was shattered, his pancreas wounded and his liver was nearly sliced in half. Were it not for organ regeneration technology, Will would have needed to have his spleen removed, and the damage to his liver eventually would have killed him.

His only stroke of luck: Will didn't sustain any wounds that penetrated his brain or spinal cord. The wounds to his head and face were mostly superficial, but the force of the blast blew him backwards into the high wall—another stroke of luck. Had he been closer to the opposite side of the stairway, he'd have fallen over the retaining wall, where at that point, a 300-foot sheer fall would have awaited him.

"How long is he likely to be here?" Tasha asked.

"At least three days, unless he has complications," Deanna replied. "Otherwise, he has a good chance for a complete recovery."

Tasha nodded, reaching out to touch Will's arm as Dr. Crusher arrived, standing on the other side of Will's bed to adjust the CCU drape and look at his readings. As soon as her fingers touched Will's arm, she nearly jerked away. He was _ice_ cold.

"Why is he so cold?" Tasha asked, forcing every biocontrol trick she possessed into use, so she didn't betray her emotions as she touched his ice-cold arm. She'd missed her friend terribly before the Away Mission. She'd never before missed anyone like that since her brother had died so many years ago. And now this . . . it was difficult to stuff her concern away, even when she had a challenging mission ahead.

"We cooled his body to slow the metabolic process," Beverly replied. "Therapeutic hypothermia has many benefits for critical patients. Once he's in better shape, we'll allow his body temperature to rise gradually."

Tasha nodded. That made sense.

"Has Ensign Liang's family been notified?"

"Yes," Tasha said. "I sent a subspace message, and it was delivered to her mother on Earth by two Starfleet honor guard. Captain Picard is recording something for her family, also, and I'll be cleaning out her belongings to be sent back."

"I'll send a message, as well," Deanna said.

Tasha nodded again, not looking forward to another unpleasant duty that awaited her. She'd be cleaning out Liang's belongings and packaging them for eventual return to her family. Shuttles didn't leave for Earth everyday, so Liang's belongings would be held until the next departure. For now, though, Tasha's attention needed to be on the upcoming return to Sora, planned in less than two hours.

"This was never your fault, Tasha," Deanna said, sensing what Tasha was trying to suppress, but also recognizing that Tasha didn't appreciate anyone airing her business to anyone within earshot. "It would have happened regardless."

"I know," she said, sighing. "I am doing everything I can to prevent it from happening again when we go back down there."

"I heard," Crusher said. She was especially unhappy that Jean-Luc Picard would be leading the team, but chose not to differentiate between potential team members. "I'm not happy about anyone going back down there. Are you part of the team?"

"Yes, I am," she said. "Is Ensign Norstrom able to—."

"Absolutely not," Crusher interrupted. "I'm beginning to think this is a security trait, that wounded officers don't want to rest."

"Can he be cleared for bridge duty?"

"I'll clear him for _alternate_ bridge duty, and that's my ONLY compromise," Crusher said. "How many are going?"

"Four of us."

"All right, I'll prepare four trauma beds and have O'Brien program those into the transport log so we don't need to pick anyone up off the floor, again," Crusher said. "By the way, I owe you an apology for yelling at you about lifting Commander Riker, yourself."

Tasha's brow furrowed. "I don't even remember you yelling at me."

"I did. I'd wanted you to wait for the hovercot so you wouldn't strain your back. But if you'd waited, frankly, Will would have died. He was that critical. For probably three hours while we were working on him, it could have gone either way."

"Has he been conscious, at all?" Tasha asked.

"No," Beverly replied. "I've kept him deeply sedated. If he came to right now, he'd have an involuntary flash of panic about the O2 infusion tube as soon as he tried to take a breath. That adrenalin surge will impact his blood pressure and could cause more internal bleeding."

Tasha took a deep breath. "Is he . . . in pain?" she stammered. "I mean, is he comfortable?"

"_Picard to Lt. Yar_," Tasha's combadge sounded with the captain's voice.

She tapped it, temporarily distracted from the agony that Will must have gone through. "In sickbay," she replied. "Go ahead, sir."

"_I thought you could use a piece of good news_," he said. "_Data and LaForge have successfully programmed the tricorders to read through 10 centimeters of iron ore without emitting any radiation."_

"That's great news, sir," she replied, a small smile spreading across her face. "Thank you."

"_We will beam down to Sora at 1900 hours. Pre-briefing in my ready room at 1815 hours. Picard out_."

"Will is deeply sedated," Beverly said, continuing the earlier conversation. "We've medicated the anxiety and the pain. Deanna has told me she senses only baseline feelings, and they are somnolent. This is a good thing because he won't stress himself into complications. When he wakes up, he's unlikely to remember much beyond his injury, if he even remembers that. Some people don't recall the incidents. Others do. We won't know more until it's safe to wake him up."

Deanna slipped one of her small hands inside Will's motionless right hand, and pulled it toward her, holding it close to her upper chest.

_Oh, jeez,_ Tasha thought.

"I'm glad you're staying with him," Tasha said, and she genuinely meant it. If anyone would know when Will Riker was coming around, it was Deanna Troi. But Troi also could sense the inward agony from the ship's security chief. Lt. Yar wasn't letting on easily, but she was absolutely devastated by what had happened to Will, more than she'd ever admit aloud.

"Tasha," Deanna started, reaching toward her even as she still held Will's limp hand to her own chest.

"I need to go," Tasha whispered abruptly, a lump rising in her throat as she backed away. _I need to get out of here or I'm going to lose it._ "I'll be . . . um, later."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_** away team manifest**

Capt. Jean-Luc Picard

Lt. Natasha Yar, security chief

Senior Ensign Saul Minnerly, security

Ensign Julio Barajas, security

* * *

**Sora, 1905 hours**

Captain Picard was somewhat disenchanted that the _Enterprise_'s Away Team wasn't greeted by a Sorian delegate at the previously agreed-upon location. But Tasha Yar was just glad they weren't riddled with bullets or phaser fire as they were beaming in.

_We've arrived alive,_ she thought, looking around, her eyes capturing everything visible: The lack of escape routes, aging window frames covered with rust, extravagant draperies dripping along the walls, potentially hiding anything.

She and Barajas did a quick tricorder scan, and discovered no people or explosive devices hidden in the spacious entryway to the palace, but there were potential weapons everywhere. Curtain draws held back with metal rods. Waist-high, portable metal posts cordoned off several doors leading elsewhere.

Collectively, they turned toward voices echoing closer, through one of those doors. Yar and Barajas had their phasers trained on that door, while Minnerly held his ready, prepared for a potential attack that could have come from elsewhere while their attention was distracted toward what they could hear.

_Saul's as paranoid as I am, _Tasha thought. _Suppose that's a good thing._

The son of a smuggler, Minnerly left his dad's freighter when he was 14, enlisted in Starfleet and quickly climbed the security ranks thanks to his knowledge of the smuggling world and his expertise with explosives and with martial arts. He was young, only 22, and already a senior ensign. He had married his girlfriend just hours before the _Enterprise_ left Earth so she and their infant daughter would be allowed to travel with them.

Tasha wanted Minnerly on this away mission because she knew he could identify virtually any explosive and disarm it if he needed to. But she also knew he was outstanding at hand-to-hand combat. He didn't tend to mess around with opponents. He dropped them quickly, "so they don't suffer, and I don't waste my time," he liked to say. She also saw a lot of herself in Minnerly, especially when he ran his mouth without thinking, and easily tossed offworld curses around for emphasis. He was rough around the edges, but had great potential.

Minnerly was immediately nervous that no one was in the entry corridor when they beamed in, and like Tasha, he expected something to detonate either over their heads, or beneath their feet. Then two Sorian delegates stepped into that parlor, their hard shoes clicking on the rock walls.

_No wonder they echo,_ Minnerly thought, somewhat irritated. _So loud that we might not hear anyone coming up behind us, unless they're wearing the same shoes._

"Captain Picard," one of them said. The Sorian was slightly smaller than Picard, and had more glittery ribbons around his right arm, evidently denoting a higher office than his companion. "We must apologize that we weren't here to greet you. An urgent communication came in at your beam-in time, notifying us that two of the insurgents responsible for the heinous bombing perpetrated yesterday have been captured, and are being held just across the quadrangle in the Justice Hall."

"President Tdoliu," Picard nodded, evidently recognizing the Sorian as the colony's president. There were no handshakes, as that was not customary on Sora. They'd all been briefed that casual physical contact during greetings was considered rudely presumptuous by Sorian people. Only on departure were handshakes acceptable.

"Please, come this way to the presidential offices," Tdoliu said. "Though this ancient entryway provided a secure welcome for you, it's not the most comfortable locale within these walls. If you'll follow me, we have a delegation and refreshments waiting for you and your officers."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Sickbay, 1910 hours**

Will's first conscious awareness wasn't a thought, but a feeling. He was choking on something solid, gagging, afraid to take a breath for fear he'd inhale the object further into his lungs. Through ears that felt plugged, he heard a soft voice. "You've got an oxygen infuser in your trachea, Will," said a familiar voice he couldn't quite place. "It's just a tube to help you. Take a deep breath."

Frozen, afraid to move, he didn't comply. He struggled to think through an impossibly foggy mind. He felt alternately anxious and numb, but now consciously thinking, I can't breathe.

"Breathe in, Will. Right now."

Beverly Crusher, he thought.

"If you don't take a breath, I'll have to sedate you, again," she said.

He chanced it, hoping she was right. He didn't get much air. It was a bit like sucking volumes through a straw, and he didn't want to do it deeply. He could feel pinpoint stabs of pain from all over his lungs, his stomach, any place that moved.

"Good, Will," Crusher was saying. "Focus on breathing. The infuser will take over again when you get tired, but you'll need to wean yourself off of it. You're on demand-rate. If you can hear what I'm saying, blink your eyes twice."

Will didn't want to blink his eyes at all. The lights were too bright. He attempted to blink, but scrunched his eyes shut against the bright lights above him.

"Computer, dim lights over ICU 3," Crusher said, hoping Will would hear that she'd dimmed the lights so he'd open his eyes, finally. "And notify Counselor Troi to come to sickbay."

* * *

**Sora, 1912 hours**

"We do not have female officers here on Sora, lieutenant," President Tdoliu observed, as Lt. Yar held a tricorder, scanning appetizers and drinks laid out for them on their arrival at the ornate dining area. Four of the six members of Tdoliu's presidential cabinet were waiting for the visiting officers. "Most of the women here engage in more cerebral activities, instead of risking their heads in the course of protecting others."

_I'm a novelty,_ Tasha thought. _Great. Might as well be back on Ligon II. Hope the Sorians won't kidnap me and make me fight their girlfriends, because I'm in NO mood . . . _

"I enjoy both activities, sir," Tasha replied, hoping she didn't sound too defensive after Tdoliu's backhanded compliment. "It's my duty to protect Captain Picard on any Away Mission. No offense is intended by my scanning every item that comes into contact with him, including refreshments."

"And none was taken," Tdoliu replied, nodding toward her, then turning to Picard. "We're delighted that the _Enterprise_ is here to advise and guide us through our fledgling membership with the Federation. We are quite concerned regarding the fates of your officers, however. They were beamed away within seconds of the detonation."

"Sir," Picard stated. "Commander William Riker, with whom you had spoken previously, remains in critical condition aboard the _Enterprise_. Lt. Giordano Tirelli is in fair condition, and two other officers were treated and released from sickbay with relatively minor injuries. However, I am grieved to report that Ensign Zhuo Liang was killed in the explosion."

"The deepest sympathies of the Sorian people will be with the crew of the _Enterprise_ when they learn of the loss of your ensign," Tdoliu responded.

"Thank you for your condolences," Picard said. "I will forward those condolences to her family, as well. Although any death in the line of duty in tragic, I'm certain she would feel her death counted for something if it were to help bring peace to this colony, President Tdoliu."

Barajas did his best not to lower his eyes at the mention of Liang. They had graduated from the Academy in the same class and Liang was a good friend. Forcing himself to remain in the moment, he maintained a watch on one half of the room while Minnerly had the other half. They were taking no chances.

Barely 10 minutes into their visit—and just as Picard began laying out the ground rules for full-fledged, Federation membership, they were informed that both insurgent prisoners were dead. They were to have been interrogated within the hour.

"Suicide," the Sorian messenger reported. He evidently was a police officer, and his tone was hardly regretful. "Pity."

Picard's eyebrows raised slightly. "Well, that is regrettable," he said.

"They were found hanging in their cells," the officer reported. "About five minutes ago, just downstairs in the Justice Hall. We had hoped to hold them for your interrogation. Unfortunately, they won't be available."

"I'm assuming if this was discovered only a few minutes ago that their bodies would be available," Tasha said. "May we examine the bodies?"

The officer swallowed once, but said, "Certainly."

"Lieutenant, make it so," Picard said, dismissing her and Minnerly to conduct that investigation while he and Barajas remained in the suite. He didn't expect this would take much longer. Sora clearly was in need of a full diplomatic team to address the many issues that had erupted since the Sorian government had disclosed Federation membership intentions to their own electorate, and a sizeable chunk of the citizenry wasn't happy.

_They're more upset about the way it was handled,_ Picard thought. _This is a democracy, and their elected officials clearly reneged on their end of the bargain to inform voters about their goals._ He would need to choose his words wisely. The world of Sora had become so dangerously polarized that even a well-worded, short and sweet speech could easily be transformed into a collection of sound bytes that could be inserted into any propaganda.

Picard suspected the insurgency had advanced far more than had been thought, previously, and was glad that Lt. Yar had planned contingencies for their escape from the planet should their situation deteriorate.

* * *

**Sorian Justice Hall, 1920 hours**

Saul Minnerly had seen his share of prisons in outlying systems—both inside and outside the cells. He hadn't liked being incarcerated when he was 12, and that was for stealing food at an outer rim, open market where Federation credit wasn't accepted. His dad had bailed him out, yelling at him later for taking such stupid chances. _We have food on the ship, plenty to drink, _his father's loud voice had echoed throughout the ship's hangar as they were prepared to leave. _What the hell was wrong with you? I just blew everything we made with this shipment on bribing you out of that shithole. _

This Sorian jail hardly was a shithole . . . more like the Shangi-La of incarceration, adjacent to the palace and part of the police precinct that evidently served that area. It was the most spacious, spic-and-span clean detention facility that Minnerly had ever seen, and there was a damn chandelier hanging up in the cell corridor.

Yar and Minnerly glanced into the multiple, empty cells that made _Enterprise_'s brig seem spartan. Sorian cells had every basic amenity, personal (but hardly private) showers and toilets, computer access, space to move around, clean sheets already on the beds (and mattresses), a desk and chair and lots of potential opportunities for prisoners to end it all. _If they didn't hang themselves with their bedsheets, they did it with their belts or shoelaces, since I'm sure they didn't take those away, either,_ Minnerly thought. _Nice._

The bodies of both insurgents lay face-up on the floor. They'd been in separate cells.

"I thought you said they'd hung themselves," Tasha said. She could see from the doors to both cells that _neither_ of them had died of asphyxiation. Not even close. She stepped into one of the cells and pulled away the twisted bedsheet that one insurgent was reported to have used to hang himself. Sure enough, there were no marks on his neck, nothing different about his eyes.

"There are no marks on his neck, no orbital petechiae," she said to the officer who had escorted them to the cellblock. His eyes flitted back and forth, rarely focusing on her even though he was "looking" right at her. "His face is the same color as the rest of his body. He did not hang himself, before or after he died."

"What are you insinuating, lieutenant?"

"Listen, we're not stupid, all right?" Minnerly interrrupted. "If they were silenced, we'll find out, and we'll probably find out who did it."

_Oh shit, here he goes,_ Tasha thought. _Minnerly does this. He gets cocky, then the other person clams up and we get nowhere. We'll be having a chat later . . ._

"Ensign, please determine if the metal signature present in the IED is present anywhere on his body," Tasha replied, glancing again at the Sorian officer. "That type of metal should have absorbed into his body and will be detected by our equipment."

This time, the officer looked at her smugly, nodding toward a chagrined Minnerly as the ensign collected those requested samples. "You seem to have a loose cannon in your ranks, ma'am," the officer remarked, glancing at the ensign as he held his tricorder over the insurgent's body.

_He just wants to piss me off,_ Tasha thought. _He has bigger problems_. "And you seem to have a loose cannon within your precinct, sir," Tasha snapped back.

"Lt. Yar," Minnerly said. "There's a positive match for that metal signature."

"So a positive match, then," the officer said. "That's outstanding! We got the right people. A testimony to our strong police work, coupled with excellent community cooperation."

"It sure is!" Tasha remarked. "And how convenient that you don't need to go to the trouble of having a trial and an interrogation . . . who knows what would have been said by these two."

The officer glowered at her, and Tasha glared right back at him. She wanted to pounce, but didn't like her odds, trapped in a precinct cell where she was outnumbered at least 20 to one. _We need to get out of here, as in off this planet,_ she thought. _If insurgents are being murdered into silence in the government's own jail, then the whole government is overrun and we need to get out of here. _

"Ensign, it's time to leave," she said, keeping her voice as even as possible. "Officer, thank you for your time. If you'll show us the door, we'll be on our way."

* * *

Minnerly, who thought 20-to-one odds was a generous estimate, was right on her heels. As they walked up two sets of steps from the precinct, Tasha surreptitiously tapped her combadge three times—one short tap, two long taps. This prearranged warning signal beeped through to Picard and Barajas, and signaled the _Enterprise _to lock onto each member of the Away Team while awaiting a second command: Two taps for immediate beam-up.

Tasha didn't know that although Picard and Barajas were locatable through the window-laden, upper floors, O'Brien was unable to lock on to Yar or Minnerly once they passed into the windowless, main corridor with their officer escort. The 25-meter corridor was impenetrable, having been tunneled through a iron-laden hill that separated the Justice Hall from the Presidential Palace.

Their odds got worse as they were walking through that main corridor, enroute back to the presidential palace. The police officer leading the way suddenly ducked out of the way as he approached the far doors, leaving both Starfleet officers wide open for the barrage of ballistic fire that followed within one second from the other end of the quadrangle, directly below the presidential suite holding the President Tdoliu, Jean-Luc Picard and Julio Barajas.

Jean-Luc Picard was yanked away from presidential negotiations with his mouth wide open. _Not a very flattering way to return to one's own ship_, he thought. He glanced to his left, where Ensign Barajas had been standing before they transporter beam jerked them from Sora . . . and he had beamed back alongside the Captain.

Barajas already was on his combadge. "Barajas to bridge, Captain Picard and myself are secure. Do you have Yar and Minnerly?"

Picard was less tactful, going straight to O'Brien. "Where in the hell are they, Chief?"

"Their signal was lost, sir," O'Brien scowled at the readings. "They went into an inaccessible area of the palace—."

"I'll be on the bridge," he said. "The instant you see either of them, lock on and bring them up."

"Yes, sir," O'Brien replied.

As Starfleet officers who had grown up on the violent fringes of society, both Natasha Yar and Saul Minnerly recognized a trap even before they saw the officer dart out of the way, clearing a wide-open path for the bullets that followed. Although they both ran for cover behind the corridor pillars, Minnerly opted to remain with Lt. Yar, and cut across more floorspace than he should have.

He paid with a centimeter-sized bullet-hole in his upper right chest. The impact nearly knocked him over, but he made it to the cover of the pillar.

"Where are you hit?" Tasha asked, her phaser already aimed at the other end of the hall. The gunfire had stopped, but she could hear them reloading. _Old-fashioned ballistic weapons,_ she thought. _And they have plenty of iron ore to make more bullets._

"Upper right chest," he said. "Why didn't they beam us up?"

"We're out of communication range," she replied. "My combadge isn't working. I hope Picard and Barajas got out of here."

Another spray of bullets darted through the corridor, still coming from one direction. They struck pillars around them, splintering shards of stone and iron and creating a smoky haze.

"Anyone behind us?"

"Probably, but they've fallen back so they don't get hit."

"OK, look, I'm going to set my phaser to overload and send it down the—," Minnerly began, then was interrupted by a fit of coughing. "Shit . . ," he muttered, wiping blood away from his mouth. "I don't have time for this."

"Who does," Tasha muttered. _He's hit badly,_ she thought. She tried her combadge again, and instead of its characteristic comm recognition sound, it blipped. There was too much interference for communications, let alone for a transporter. "Get your phaser ready. When it blows, we're going to run through, head to the left and out into the quadrangle. They'll pick up our signal and beam us up ASAP."

_Sure hope they do,_ Minnerly thought, opting by then to hold his breath, inhaling and exhaling only when he had to in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable worsening of his condition. He was still going to bleed internally, no matter what. _At least I can move,_ he thought. _At least I'm not shot in the legs, or the head, or paralyzed. I've got a chance, I've got to keep my ass moving._

"You gonna be all right to stand up and run once your phaser detonates?"

He nodded. His chest hurt, not just from the bullet wound, but throughout his chest, suddenly. _Couldn't be infection so soon,_ he thought. _What the hell. I've got a damn band around my chest. This just—ohh . . . this is bad . . ._

Just as suddenly, Tasha was right in his face, angry, intense, shouting at him. "Cough, right now!" she said, clamping her hand over the bullet wound now foaming across his right upper chest. "Deep breath in, then cough _hard._ Do it!"

But it was hard to draw that breath, and Tasha instantly knew why. Saul Minnerly was conscious, breathing, could move and run, but he was in life-threatening trouble. The bullet had punctured his right lung, and now free air was moving into that space, but not going where it belonged. It was going everywhere else in his chest, shoving his heart and other lungs aside to accommodate rising air pressure within his chest. If that air continued to accumulate, the pressure on his heart muscle would be too much, and he'd go into cardiac arrest.

She clamped her bare hand over the bullet wound on his chest, yelled at him again, and as he drew the deepest breath possible, she let her hand off the wound as he coughed, weakly. But it was enough to spray blood and excess fluid out of the bullet hole. That small cough lessened some of the pressure inside his chest, maybe bought him 30 seconds of exertion so he could make a staggering run for it, and beam the hell out.

"No bullshit. Can you run, or not?" Tasha shouted as more bullets cut into the pillar, sending shards of metal raining down onto them.

"I'm gonna run," he replied. It was easier to breathe, but he knew it wouldn't last. He'd be in bad shape again by the time they got to the quadrangle—if they lived that long. He programmed his phaser to overload, then pushed the commit button, handed it to his commanding officer. She'd need to heave the phaser down the corridor, and time it so it would detonate before the insurgents shoved it back in their direction.

"Here goes," Tasha muttered, sweeping her arm back and hurling the overloading phaser down the corridor, even as a fresh barrage of bullets came from the other direction. They were trying to hit the officers and the sliding phaser, but their fire was haphazard, as if they weren't used to operating the weapons. _So much the better,_ Tasha thought, then glanced at Minnerly. He was pale, sweaty, looked like absolute shit. "Get ready," she said. "We're either staying or we're living."


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks so much for your reviews! I'm glad the technical stuff has read well. I kind of had to create some wish-list medical devices. How ultra-cool, though, if patients could be beamed directly into emergency departments. Hope they've fixed hospital diversion issues by the 24th century..._

_Forewarning: Rather strong cussing ahead._

* * *

**Future's Present, Chapter 6**

* * *

**USS **_**Enterprise**_** (orbiting over the planet Sora), in Sickbay, 1935 hours**

Tasha Yar could feel Saul Minnerly's blood seeping through her fingers again, even before they'd finished materializing in Sickbay . . . standing up on the floor, nabbed from their last position as they were running for their lives. Minnerly's phaser had detonated just one second after Tasha slid it across the floor at the insurgents.

Initially, they'd run separately, through smoke and airborne particles of metal still floating in the air less than two seconds after the detonation. Through acrid smoke, Tasha saw at least four bodies of insurgents lying behind those doors, but didn't wait to find out their condition. By the time she and Minnerly emerged into the open quadrangle, Minnerly was nearly incapacitated again. Tasha pulled his arm around her shoulder, and half-dragged him the rest of the way into transporter range.

"—go again," Beverly Crusher already sounded terse, probably because yet another patient was beaming directly into sickbay, and beaming in on the floor. Again. "Do they not have enough floorspace on Sora for critically injured people to lie down?"

Tasha could have cared less about where they beamed in, as long at they were in sickbay. By the time they rematerialized, Minnerly was standing firmly on his own again, but bending slightly at his waist, desperately trying to draw another breath. _It's only been 30 seconds, if that, since he last coughed,_ Tasha thought. _This could be bad._ "Cough again on three?" she said to him, and he nodded. "Three, two . . ."

Minnerly drew a deep breath, then coughed just as Lt. Yar removed her bare hand from the bubbling, bullet wound in his upper, right chest. Blood and fulminating air bubbles sprayed from the wound, across Crusher's uniform boots and onto the sickbay carpet.

"Good one," Tasha remarked.

"No, it wasn't!" Crusher shouted, not sure if she was more indignant over blood being sprayed across her shoes, or across her immaculate sickbay floor. Both officers reeked of smoke and were covered by particles of rust and shards of metal.

"So much better," Minnerly muttered. "Thanks."

"No problem," Tasha replied.

"You bought us 60 seconds," Crusher interjected. She didn't need a tricorder to tell that Minnerly's cough was only a band-aid against what had to be a tension pneumothorax, a lethal complication unless it was corrected within minutes. "Lie down on that bed right now, ensign."

Tasha had clamped her hand over Minnerly's upper chest again, then glanced over her shoulder at nurse Suravi Bhat, who had moved next to her to assist with the injured security officer.

"Can't lie down, can't breathe," Minnerly said, and his eyes bore that out. _He's hypoxic, he's panicking,_ Crusher said, programming a hypo spray for non-sedating pain relief. She needed him to stay awake. The last thing she wanted to do was completely knock this officer out, because then she'd need to maintain his airway while he was unconscious. _If he keeps up his macho bullshit, I won't have a choice. He's cratering fast. _

"—got to lie back," Crusher, Bhat and Yar all were talking at once, then Bhat turned away briefly to grab the pre-sterilized, chest decompression tray from the wall unit. Tasha's blood-covered hands pushed his shoulders back, and actually didn't meet much resistance. But when Minnerly tried to take a breath while he was lying flat, he bolted back upward.

"No, I'm sitting up," he exclaimed under what was left of his breath, trying to swing his legs back over the edge of the bed so he could sit straight up, leaning forward, taking another labored breath even as bloody air bubbles frothed around his wound. He weakly coughed again. This one wasn't at as productive as the previous four had been. The traumatized tissue around the bullet hole were swelling as fast as he was weakening.

"All right," Tasha said, suddenly nonchalant, shrugging her shoulders. "Then I guess you're gonna die. It's up to you."

Minnerly shot Tasha a strained look, and she glared right back at him. Bhat's eyes grew wide with the bluntness of what Tasha had said, but she kept moving, readying the kit for Dr. Crusher to use. But Beverly understood Tasha's logic. Lt. Yar understood what drove an officer like Saul Minnerly, and didn't mince words about it.

"So, _sit _still," Crusher replied, hurriedly sticking her hands inside the hand-sterilizer just beneath the edge of the ICU bed. The unit instantly put an invisible, skin-tight, sterile layer of antibacterial material over Beverly's hands—a quick fix for immediate surgery. In his argumentative refusal to lie down, Minnerly had lost his option for anesthetic. There was no longer time for that. "I can still do this while you're sitting up, but it's going to hurt because you're out of time for a painkiller."

Crusher's laser-scalpel began slicing away the tough skin and fibrous tissue on his right side.

"Oww!" Minnerly gasped, involuntarily jerking his torso away from the scalpel, and exhaling much of his precious, reserve lung capacity. "God fucking shit—!"

"Shut up," Tasha snapped. "Hold still—."

"This _sucks_!"

"That's why we call it a sucking chest wound, ensign," Crusher remarked, piercing through the intercostal muscles between his ribs with a specialized, suction tube that was attached to the CCU drape.

Minnerly tried to draw another breath but couldn't. He could feel himself traversing to that that disquieting, foggy level of consciousness, and didn't know that it wasn't just his breathing that was being impacted. All the free air inside his chest also was pressing against his heart, constricting it, preventing it from beating effectively. He collapsed back on the bed, his mouth gasping desperately.

"Need air," he mouthed weakly, all in one syllable.

"You've got air," Crusher replied. "It's all in the wrong place." She wiggled her finger inside the hole she'd just made between Minnerly's ribs, making sure she felt his straining diaphragm muscle inferior to the tube and not above it. "Tube's in. Turn it on, Suravi."

Bhat hit one of two, blue buttons on the CCU drape, which was still upright from Minnerly's desperate bid to sit up. The one-way valves inside the suction tube now sticking out of Minnerly's chest opened, and an audible whoosh of air broke through, flowing through the tube and into the drape. Bhat's eyebrows shot up when she saw how much free air flowed out through the tube.

"950 ml, and that was without suction," Bhat remarked.

"I'll need 50 cc's of LidoEpi," Crusher asked.

Minnerly smiled. It felt _so_ good to just draw air into his lungs. He was once again wide-awake. His side was throbbing from being sliced open, but it didn't hurt that bad, anymore . . . "Uhh," he replied. "What's the LidoEpi for? The tube's in, and I'm feeling much better."

"I'm about to seal that tube into your side for the next three hours," Crusher said, then asked him again. "If you jerk sideways from the pain, it'll pull the tube out."

"I don't want it," Minnerly replied. "I can lie still three hours."

"You couldn't lie still for more than three seconds before the tube was in," Tasha remarked.

Beverly leaned down close to Minnerly's ear. "You can drop the macho shit anytime."

He looked up at her, a bit surprised—but not shocked—and groaned.

"Saul, just take the anesthetic," Tasha remarked. "It'll be better in the long run. Besides, you've got to recover in time to kick my ass in the martial arts competition."

"Ahh," he said, smiling at first and then wincing as more pain hit. "Don't make me laugh."

Having had enough, Crusher mashed the hypo spray directly against his side, just behind where the tube stuck out. "This will just numb the dermatome, nothing more," she remarked. "You should be a lot more comfortable in a few seconds."

"Thank you," he said. "Sorry I cursed at you."

"Well, I cursed back, so now we're even," Crusher replied, smiling. Then she turned to Tasha, then wagged the hypo spray tube at her. "And _you,"_ she said to the security chief. "You are covered with blood. Is any of it yours?"

"No," Tasha replied. "Not that I know of."

"I know you. That's not very reassuring," the doctor said, though she didn't appear too concerned. "When you have a moment, I'd like to speak with you in my office. You aren't in trouble, I'd just like to speak with you. But before you come in there, please wash your hands. I don't want any more bloody hand prints left on the door frames."

Tasha nodded. _Did I leave a mess the last time this happened?_ she struggled to remember. The first, disastrous away mission had occurred only 26 hours earlier, but so much had happened since then that she couldn't immediately recall what she'd done after Will Riker was beamed in, oozing blood from his mouth, nose and 75 other places.

She glanced toward Will's bed, and saw he was still asleep. _He slept through all that chaos, or he's still sedated,_ she thought. The O2 infuser still was in, which told her that he wasn't strong enough to breathe on his own, yet. _Minnerly had immediately life-threatening injuries, and he'll be out of here by tomorrow morning. Will doesn't even have his infuser out, yet, and more than 12 hours have passed._

Tasha felt her uniform sleeves elevating from the goosebumps rising beneath the fabric. She excused herself to Sickbay's bathroom so no one would see her bloody hands shaking.

* * *

**Sickbay, 2030 hours**

"—going to speak with my wife?" Minnerly was saying as Tasha emerged from the bathroom, her hair still wet, her uniform clean and crisp. She had glanced in the mirror at her smoke-smeared face, and saw how her uniform fabric glittered with shards of iron ore, an opted for a quick shower and uniform change. Mere hand washing wasn't going to cut it. She just wanted every vestige of that planet _gone._

"I don't want her hearing about this through the rumor mill," Minnerly was speaking with Suravi Bhat. Clearly concerned that Dalla would learn her husband was seriously wounded, he didn't want her to worry too much.

"I'll inform her," said Captain Picard. He had arrived in Sickbay while Tasha was in the shower, and Dr. Crusher had given him the summarized version of Minnerly's injuries, and now she was already halfway across the room, tending to Lt. Tirelli's status from the earlier, IED incident. Tirelli would be dismissed tomorrow morning, also.

"Where is your wife's duty station?" Picard asked.

"She's civilian," Minnerly replied. "It's . . . what time is it?"

"It's 2030 hours," Picard replied. "The ship's computer will locate her."

"She should be in our cabin, by now," he said, then noticed Tasha have moved to stand beside Picard. She nodded toward Picard.

"Lieutenant Yar," he remarked. "Ensign Minnerly is begging to be released early from sickbay."

She shook her head, smiling slightly at the security ensign. "Were I to encourage an escape from sickbay, Dr. Crusher would kill me on the spot, sir."

"Yes, I would!" Crusher called from across ICU, where she was adjusting readings on Lt. Tirelli's bed. Tirelli was sitting up, wide awake, and couldn't help but smile at the exchange.

Tasha smiled, then turned to Minnerly. "How are you feeling?"

"Good enough to leave, but they won't let me go until tomorrow morning," he muttered. "Thanks for kicking my ass when I needed it."

"You're quite welcome," she replied.

"Lieutenant, I'm about to contact Starfleet Command regarding this latest incident on Sora, and before I do that, I've several things to say," Picard remarked. "One is a laudatory statement to both of you for outstanding planning and escape from what could very well have been a lethal ambush. Had we not been beamed away, Ensign Barajas and I would likely have fallen victim to the explosive device detonated in the presidential suite shortly after you two came under fire in the corridor."

Tasha's eyes widened. "Sir?"

"The two remaining members of the presidential cabinet walked into the suite approximately five seconds before we were beamed away," Picard said. "I was in the midst of introductions to both of them when the transporter beam enveloped Ensign Barajas and I. Evidently, the attacks were coordinated to have occurred at the same time."

"What of the president and his cabinet, sir?" Tasha asked, though she already knew.

"All dead," Picard confirmed.

"One of the late cabinet members was wearing a bomb," Minnerly remarked. "This had to have been a planned, coordinated attack."

"Most likely," Picard replied.

"All right, you two," Crusher said, moving to stand at the other side of the bed. "I'm going to need to kick you out so he can stop talking and get some rest."

"I'll stop by before duty tomorrow," Tasha said to Dr. Crusher and Minnerly before leaving with Captain Picard.

* * *

"I know Dr. Crusher would like to speak with you, so I'll only take a few minutes, lieutenant," Picard said. They had stepped away from the treatment area, stopping near Sickbay's ICU doors. "Based not only on your security expertise, but also on your firsthand experience with a similar coup on your home world, what is _your_ recommendation regarding Sora?"

"Sir," Tasha said, lowering her head, then raising it so she could meet his eyes. "As much as I would love to go back down there and right every wrong, I think we should step back and consider the original wording of their request for Federation membership. Did they request membership, or did they request our help?"

Picard nodded. She was thinking rationally, and not as emotionally as he'd originally feared she would. "Their application for membership did not include a plea for help," he confirmed.

"That simplifies our requirement, sir."

"Yes, it does," Picard agreed.

"Sir, I was only a child when my home world's government collapsed," she said.

"But you lived through it. You survived its aftermath. No one else on this ship truly understands the street-level, day-to-day ramifications of potentially abandoning this world to its so-called evolutionary fate," Picard said. "You've had a great deal thrown at you in the past 48 hours. And while your original arrival in sickbay was less than laudatory, I must congratulate you on how well you've adapted. Dr. Crusher is complimentary of the time you spent in sickbay—however grudging that duty may have been at the time, your aid was invaluable. It will be noted in your record that you took that ball and ran with it. And I am very proud of you."

"Thank you, sir," she said.

"And I look forward to seeing you on the bridge tomorrow," he said. "We can all use a good night's rest after the events of late."

"So, we're _not_ returning to Sora," she asked.

"Not by my command," Picard said. "I must adhere to Starfleet Command's directive, but we've more than uncovered a false pretense regarding Sora's application. I was under the impression that this application was approved democratically."

She shook her head. "There's no way the majority approved," she said. "The government has a mutiny going on, down there."

"They had a mutiny, and the people have spoken," Picard added. "Our own history has shown that when a corrupted few force the many, the result often is revolution. Those leaders wanted us to swoop in and somehow convince those masses that Federation membership would be the best course of action for them, even if those people had repeatedly voted against it. Starfleet does not exist to mediate self-contained, civil wars. We certainly will closely monitor the system, the Federation is unlikely to grant membership to a world whose people clearly are divided on Federation presence. We can only hope that if they continue to follow the Sorian constitution, the new leaders will learn from their own history, and allow the people to decide."

"No, they won't," Tasha remarked, shaking her head.

"You seem pessimistically certain of that, lieutenant."

"Power is up for grabs, and in a coup situation, no one is going to the polls to decide who'll be in charge. The insurgency will split into factions, and then they'll turn on each other. They have too much pride and not enough discipline. Everyone wants to be in charge."

Picard nodded. "Any Federation representative would be greeted with aggression," he said.

"I'm certain of it," she said. "Now that they've got the authority to call the shots, they won't want the Federation anywhere near their centers of power."

"Let me ask you something else," Picard said. "If we're ordered to stay away—and I'm all but certain that Starfleet Command will do that, at this point—we would need to leave behind anyone whose pro-Federation wishes may bring harm to them."

She knew where he was going. She'd grown up in that circumstance. She still remembered watching Federation shuttles taking off from the embassy in Turkana City, remembered one of them being shot down.

"Having been there—both literally and figuratively—I can tell you that it's going to be hell for the ordinary people on that planet," she said. "Their government is gone, and now there's a power grab, and before it's over, I think that a lot of people are going to get killed. Suppose we organized an evacuation of anyone who—."

"No. If Starfleet orders us to leave—,"

"They haven't ordered us to leave, _yet,_ sir."

"—cannot violate the Prime Directive . . ." Picard continued. "I know it seems unjustly harsh, and that's why I needed to discuss this with you. We've lost one promising officer, very nearly lost several others. We've given our blood, sweat and tears already for a world that's going through their evolutionary process of deciding a government. I refuse to allow any further excursions into an insurgent war. Your recommendations are noted, and they are dead-on, but we must abide by the wishes of Starfleet Command, and they will almost certainly side with the Prime Directive."

"Sir," she said. "I also know that there are other means of getting people off that planet."

He stared at her, nodding slowly. "Smugglers?" he said, keeping his voice low.

She nodded back. "They were the only reason I escaped Turkana, sir," she said.

He shook his head. "The Federation stopped paying smugglers years ago, even for political prisoners. We cannot be affiliated with the smuggling network."

"We don't have to be."

Picard sighed. "I can see the logic, but I don't like it, at all."

"Yes, sir," she remarked.

"Suppose pro-Federation people were brought off the planet," Picard said. "Who then would remain to push Federation membership?"

"If they remain and they admit they wish to join the Federation, they'll likely be killed by the majority that doesn't want it. I don't think the Sorians would just imprison them, even if they do have unbelievably cushy jails . . . you should have seen these cells. Anyway, they aren't going to waste their time, or their resources, keeping people alive who might spark ideas they won't want remaining. They're going to remake their society and eradicate what they don't want. I said it to Minnerly while we were being shot at, that we either stay, or we live. They should have that chance to live, to go somewhere else and live as they choose."

She was looking away again, toward Saul Minnerly, who still was awake, with his left arm thrown up over his eyes.

"Sir, Ensign Minnerly's father is a smuggler," she half-whispered, hoping that Minnerly wouldn't hear what she'd said.

"Lieutenant . . ," Picard began.

"I'm just saying," he remarked.

He let out another deep breath. "And how can I say 'absolutely not', especially to a convincing argument, when we are already operating on those fringes. Therefore, my official word must be no . . . once I receive that directive from Starfleet."

"But since we haven't received that word _yet_, sir. . ."

"Knowledge of that option will be made available anyway," Picard replied, with a glint in his eye, and she couldn't help but let a small grin slip through. He reached toward her, and rested one hand on her shoulder.

"I'll not have this rest on your shoulders, Natasha," he said. "They've borne far too much already. Nor on Ensign Minnerly. He's got too promising a career with Starfleet to have it come crashing down by violating a Starfleet directive. Believe it or not, I've plenty of contacts in the smuggling world."

Her expression betrayed surprise. "_You_, sir?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "And I am owed favors from at least two of them."

She nodded, smiling broadly at last.

"Speak with Dr. Crusher, and then go get some well-earned rest, lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

**Dr. Crusher's office, 2100 hours**

Tasha peeked around Crusher's office door. "Dr. Crusher?" she said.

"Oh! Hi, lieutenant," she replied. "Come in and have a seat."

Tasha sat on one of the two conference chairs, having no idea what Crusher was going to say.

"I know it's late, but I owe you an apology," Beverly said. "I was wrong about you. I was so overwhelmed by a staffing shortage that I never considered how much help you could be, especially when it really mattered."

"Thank you," she replied, a bit embarrassed. "I'm glad I could help."

"You did more than just help," Beverly said. "Have you considered furthering your medical training?"

Tasha shrugged. "I thought about field medical when I was at the Academy, but I never took the test. I was on the security track, and I tested for tactical comm before I would have tested for medical. I did really well on the tactical exam, so I went with that."

"And, you never took the medical test."

"No, I haven't."

"As far as I'm concerned, you have," Crusher said. "You took it here in the last several days. And you took it on Earth when you and Will Riker were stranded there. You managed to eke out acceptable field treatment for serious burns that could have been incapacitating. He has very little scarring, full range of motion, no residual effects."

_That was the least of his issues,_ Tasha thought. She'd already told Dr. Crusher that she was only one of the several people who helped take care of Will when his hands and arms were burned, but opted not to revisit that story. Will's issues today were exponentially more serious.

"Have you thought about getting an advanced-practice medical field rating?"

Tasha shook her head. "No. Not seriously," she said. "I hadn't."

"Well, I want you to seriously consider doing that."

"But I've already graduated."

"You're serving aboard a galaxy-class starship with a Level 1 Sickbay, so you qualify for the distance learning option," Crusher said. "You could study the didactic portion at your own pace, and get your clinical experience here."

"I would need to take leave for the remainder of my clinicals."

Crusher smiled. "So, you have checked this out."

_Busted,_ Tasha thought, flushing a bit. "I looked into it, yes," she admitted. "Just after Will and—after Commander Riker and I returned from Earth. But it wouldn't be acceptable for me to take that much time away from my _Enterprise_ post to complete the required clinicals on Earth."

"So, just like that, you stopped thinking about it."

"The chief of security position aboard the Federation's flagship isn't exactly something to toss away."

"I wouldn't want you to toss it away," Crusher said.

Tasha glanced away, out Dr. Crusher's door and toward Will's bed.

"What's wrong?" Crusher asked after a few seconds had passed.

Tasha shook her head. "Just thinking too much," she replied.

"Will's going to be fine,"

"I didn't know you were empathic."

"I don't need to be an empath to detect concern," Beverly said.

"I'm OK," Tasha said. "It's Commander Riker who deserves the concern."

"Martinez told me that you didn't even flinch," Beverly said. "You picked up the top half of him—the heavy half—and tossed him onto a stasis bed as if he weighed next to nothing."

"Oh, I flinched, believe me," Tasha remarked, looking away again, at an adjacent wall, at the plants, at anything else.

"Well, you're a functional flincher," Beverly said. "I'm glad you were standing next to him when he beamed in."

She looked down at her hands. "He turned his head toward me, looked at me, started falling," Tasha said softly. "Martinez told me that I controlled his fall but I don't remember anything about it. I just remember sitting on the floor, holding him up. He looked up at me, and then blood started _pouring_ out his mouth and nose, his eyes stopped focusing. I thought he was going to die right in my lap."

"He did die in your lap," Beverly said. "If you hadn't taken the initiative to lift him onto the stasis bed . . . if you'd waited for a hovercot, we probably wouldn't have gotten him back."

"I watched a man die on Earth of the same injuries," Tasha said, recalling the drive-by with two people plugged in broad daylight in Kansas City. "He'd been shot—with a bullet, not by phaser. Same type of projectile we encountered on Sora, only this one shredded the man's airway. He drowned in his own blood, coughed some of it into my face. There wasn't anything I could do for him except stay with him while he died. This ancient ambulance showed up, they pumped on his chest, plugged him with tubes, never got a response. They were trying to resurrect a piece of meat. He was just hit once, and he died. Will was hit I don't know how many times . . ."

Crusher forced aside her curiosity about the 21st century incident, and focused instead on what had happened to Will Riker in the 24th. "Will survived because of an outstanding transporter chief who erred on the side of getting him into the ICU rather than waiting for someone here to confirm permission to beam him to an assigned trauma suite; an outstanding medical team response; and an outstanding security chief who went with her instincts," Beverly said. "If you'd have gone by the book and waited for any reason, he would have died. I very nearly lost him, several times. He coded again, several times. He was so severely injured . . ."

Tasha leaned forward, resting her elbows against her knees, shaking her head.

"I don't even want to think about what could have happened," she said, nearly whispering.

"I'm sorry," Crusher said. "I hadn't considered how witnessing what Will went through, how that would impact you."

She nodded, setting her jaw.

"I know you weren't romantically involved," Beverly said. "You've told me that, Deanna told me that again today, and she would know, frankly. She said you were best friends, as close as family. Like brother and sister."

"Something like that," she responded.

"Well, he's going to need you," Beverly said. "Most patients experience a number of intense emotions after being resuscitated. I imagine he'll be no different. As he recovers, he'll need to be around people who know him well, and with whom he feels comfortable. He needs a friend as much as he'll need a counselor. He'll be glad you're here."

Tasha shrugged. "Maybe," she finally replied.

"Why wouldn't he be?"

_How much of this shit does she need to know?_ Tasha thought. "It's complicated."

"Have you spoken with him since you and Minnerly returned?"

"No!" Tasha replied, then caught herself. She'd responded too quickly, too forcefully. "I mean, not yet. He couldn't talk, anyway, with that tube down his throat."

"I extubated him while you were readying for the away mission," Crusher said. "He's very weak, but he's doing much better. He's got another day here, then he can recuperate in his cabin for a couple more days. He'll be good as new before you know it."

She glanced outside. "I hadn't noticed." she said. "I thought he was just asleep."

"He's not even ice-cold, anymore, either," Beverly reassured. "I turned off the cooling bed."

"He probably didn't mind being ice-cold," Tasha remarked. "He keeps his cabin so chilly that it could double as a refrigerator."

Beverly was perplexed, her brow furrowing. She had no idea what Tasha was talking about. "What's a refrigerator?"

"Something we had in our kitchen in the 21st century," Tasha replied. "There were no replicators, so most perishable food items had to be stored in the refrigerator. He used to open the door and stand in front of it during the summer, because the apartment stayed so warm. . ." her voice trailed off.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Beverly remarked after a few seconds, and Tasha reluctantly nodded.

"I don't want to make a big deal—," Tasha said, and Beverly instantly understood. She felt the same way. Medical personnel routinely were exposed to incidents that were upsetting, and either developed coping skills or ultimately bailed out of the profession. It was stressful enough without people getting the wrong impression.

"This is a normal part of what we deal with," Beverly said. "The first bad incident stays with all of us. I still remember the first bad incidents I dealt with as if they happened yesterday, but they happened 20 years ago. You already have incredibly thick skin, but things like this occasionally are going to eat at you, if you let them, if you don't find healthy ways to deal with that stress. It's OK to be upset after a situation like this. You haven't lost your edge, at all. You've just been hit with a lot, lately. And as if that weren't stressful enough, now I'm begging you to go back to school."

Tasha smiled.

"Do you want me to call Deanna?"

Tasha shook her head, slowly. "No, I'll be all right," she replied. "She needs to rest. She was in here all day."

"You sure?"

Tasha nodded, standing up. "I'll probably chat with her tomorrow, see how _she_'s doing," Yar said.

"She's concerned about you," Beverly said. "Please sit down and chat with her. You'd be helping each other out."

"I will," Tasha said.

"And go see Will," Beverly added. "I can see from his biomed readings that he's awake."

* * *

**Sickbay, 2115 hours**

Trying not to betray how tentative she really was, Tasha approached Will's bed, inwardly hoping that he was asleep. The lights had been dimmed over his bed at 2100 hours. She hoped Picard wouldn't walk in and see her standing beside Will's bed. She didn't want any more misunderstandings and trouble. She paused before passing into Will's visual field, beyond the CCU drape that still was over his chest.

"Here, have this," Beverly Crusher was behind her, whispering, holding out a tall stool, the same ones available for family members. Deanna probably had used it from time to time as she stayed at Will's side throughout the day. Tasha nodded her thanks, and Beverly turned and walked to her office, clearly not wanting to intrude.

Tasha placed the stool next to the upper part of Will's bed, and finally sat down. Will opened his eyes and slowly turned his head so he could face her.

"Hey, Tash" he said, his voice hoarse, nearly a whisper, spoke of his vocal cords still being a bit dry from having a tube snaking through them for nearly 12 hours. His voice wouldn't be as projective for several days, and would return to normal only if he refrained from over-using it. Not that any of that mattered to Tasha. She was just glad he was breathing and speaking.

"Hey," she replied, and smiled. Her voice was going quickly as a myriad of emotions rose within her. She clamped them down, not wanting him to worry about her. He had enough to worry about, already.

Though his condition had stabilized, Will's complexion had the porcelain pallor of a man on his deathbed. His face still bore healing scrapes and lacerations, and the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke volumes. He'd been sedated or asleep since he was resuscitated, but his body had worn itself out from the metabolic demands of recuperation from such catastrophic injuries.

"You did great," he whispered, even managing a small smile.

"Were you awake when we came in an hour ago?"

He nodded, finally smiling a bit.

"We're getting the hell out of this system," Tasha told him, and he smiled again, allowing his eyes to float closed, relieved that this finally was over. Weakly, he moved his right hand, then willed his arm to move with it, so he could brush Tasha's adjacent arm. She glanced at his outstretched hand and instinctively folded both of hers around it. Will's hand was twice as large as Tasha's, but it felt so fragile. He could barely move his fingers, let alone grip her small hand in his.

She felt a lump rising in her throat, and looked at him just in time to see a single tear pooling from the corner of one of his eyes and slip down the side of his face.

Gently moving his hand to relax atop one of her knees, she reached out with her other hand, and brushed his tear away. He wasn't at all bothered that she was seeing him cry—she'd seen him in that shape before, when they were stranded in the past for so many months. They'd long-since moved past being troubled by witnessing each other's emotional extremes, even if protocol now demanded that they maintain a professional distance.

But she knew instinctively that he wouldn't want _anyone else_ to see him like that. He could barely lift his own hand, let alone wipe tears off his face. So she took care of that for him, and stayed with him for several more minutes, until he fell asleep, again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Future's Present, Chapter 7**

* * *

**Natasha Yar's personal log**

_Beverly Crusher nailed me to the proverbial wall, last night. _

_She told me that I should get my AP field medical license, which would enable me to render advanced medical treatment. I could complete the didactic portion by correspondence, and more than half of my clinical hours could be completed here, as well. But the remainder would be completed on two different starbases. One would be on Earth, at one of four major medical facilities operated by Starfleet Medical, where I'd have one month on the base and another month responding to various emergencies. The other would be responding to field emergencies on an outlying starbase._

_It's different. It's intriguing. I've always had the interest, but never pursued it. Dr. Crusher seemed very complimentary of my aptitude for medical, even offering to write a letter of recommendation for the program. _

_I'm actually thinking about doing this. But I have a tough choice to make. If I accept medical training, I would likely need to resign my position as chief of security aboard the Enterprise. If I'm going to be off the ship for more than four months, there's no way. Captain Picard probably would never approve a leave of absence that long for a senior officer._

_So, I'm going to disappoint someone. _

_I'm conflicted, about a lot of things. I want to continue as chief of security, but this other opportunity is intriguing. I do want to learn more. But the decision I need to make . . . this is more for me to process than all I would learn through Starfleet Medical. _

_Now that I've been assigned to the best ship in the fleet, I would need to leave to fulfill Plan B. Doesn't seem like it's worth it, because the Enterprise crew is my family. I feel compelled to stay, to be here to protect them and take care of them. Beverly told me that I'm already a caregiver. "You already are watching out for the safety of others," she'd said. "You're already on the front lines. It's your instinct to want to help people."_

_I hope I'm doing the right thing. I wish I could speak with Will about this without risking trouble for both of us. He's got enough to worry about, already._

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Sickbay, 0715 hours**

Compared to most patients in Sickbay, Will Riker's recovery was slow. He'd been told how badly he was injured, how many times he'd been sliced apart with shrapnel. Still, it was frustrating to him to be recovering at a crawling pace, compared to other patients whom he witnessed sailing through _their_ treatments.

Most were in and out within 30 minutes, some of them staying overnight for scheduled procedures so their dayshift duties wouldn't be interrupted. Rarely did anyone stay more than two days. But Will Riker's injuries, incurred when an improvised explosive device detonated three meters away, were catastrophic.

He was healing. Now he could sit up—but that hadn't been pleasant, at all. He'd only been allowed to sit up to a 45-degree angle, though he'd looked forward to moving more. Then realized how daunting that would be. Sitting up was an incremental process, leaving him so winded and dizzy that he immediately wanted to lie back down, again. Beverly Crusher assured him that this was normal and that the first couple of days were hard after such severe injuries.

"This is one step below rehabbing from coolant inhalation," she said.

He stared at her. "No one recovers from that."

"That's right, no one does," Beverly remarked. "You've got to understand something. Five of your internal organs had to be regenerated. You lost 80 percent of your lung function. You're sitting there with new lungs, a new liver, a new spleen, a new pancreas, and you'll be going though the rest of your life minus two meters of small intestine. It is going to take time for you to heal."

Will let his head fall back against his bed.

"How much time?" he said. "Realistically, when can I be back on the bridge?"

"It's not just a matter of what you can do physically, Will," she said. "Your brain sustained some concussive-force impact in the detonation, and there was some minor damage during the resuscitation. Normally, this wouldn't have been an issue, but it was widespread."

"So, I'm brain-damaged," he muttered.

She smiled. "Well, technically . . ," she began, with a wry smile.

He returned the smile with a grin of his own. "Hey, whatever happened to a physician's compassion?" he asked in mock outrage.

Now she laughed. "I have plenty of compassion, believe me!" Beverly replied. "You will be fine. Remember those emotional extremes I told you about? I'm glad to see you smiling, again."

"I'm glad to be smiling, and not be dead," he said. "Thanks for saving my life."

"A great team of people saved your life," she replied.

"You're being too modest."

"No physician saves lives alone, even if we like to believe that we do," she replied. "We might be able to tip the treatment scales, but if it weren't for a great team of people working with us, we wouldn't succeed. That's not something that many physicians believe, that we need others so much. But if it weren't for Miles O'Brien deciding to beam you straight in here, for Tasha Yar not waiting for the hovercot and hauling you straight up to the surgibed, for..."

Will looked away.

"Everyone played a part," Beverly continued. "Saving lives is only accomplished when every link in the chain is there. If one of those actions hadn't been done, you probably wouldn't be here, today."

"Even if Tash—Lt. Yar, even if she'd followed policy and waited for the hovercart," Will remarked.

"The hovercot," she corrected.

"Cot, cart," Will replied. "Whatever it is. It would have taken 30 seconds."

"As it was, you coded three times."

"I've heard that I 'coded'," he said. "What does that mean?"

"You were in cardiac arrest," she said. "You needed to be resuscitated, and you needed extensive stints in stasis to accomplish that. You were placed in protective stasis to preserve your brain function while we quickly repaired the damage to your vital organs."

"I thought stasis was only for dead people," Will muttered.

"Your heart rate, ventilatory effort and metabolism were placed in a holding pattern until we could stop the bleeding," she replied. "You had 78 wounds. If you'd been on another ship or unable to beam up within one minute, you would have been 'lethaled' on the spot. You would have been beamed straight to the morgue. I was surprised you were standing when you beamed in."

"I wasn't standing for long," he said.

"How much do you remember?" Beverly asked.

Will shrugged. "I remember the explosion, and I remember hitting my combadge. I don't remember standing up, but I must have. And I must have tried to breathe while I was being beamed up because the next thing I remember was choking and falling over in sickbay."

"Lt. Yar caught you," she said.

"I remember that," he said. "And then I looked up and Tasha was looking right at me. She was saying something but I don't know what it was. I kept looking up at her, I was smothering, and something was getting in my eyes, and then I must have blacked out."

_Blood was in your eyes,_ Beverly thought. _You were choking on your own blood._ "You went into cardiac arrest," she said. "That's why you blacked out."

Will glanced at the wall.

"I know it's all been very overwhelming," she said. "You experienced death and lived to tell about it. I'm glad to see you're progressing as well as you are. I don't know what Tasha said to you last night, but it helped."

He looked back at her, but said nothing.

"Why do you two keep pushing each other away?" she asked.

WIll sighed. "It's complicated," he said.

"That's what she said, too," Beverly replied. "That's a great line."

"What else did she say?"

Just that, that it was complicated," she said. "It doesn't need to be. You're good friends who went through a prolonged ordeal away from the ship, and now this incident that occurred yesterday. I can see how much you care about each other, so I don't understand the distancing. It's almost as if you were teenagers again, afraid that Dad might walk in on you."

"There'd be nothing to see," Will shrugged.

"Just two friends being friends?" she asked.

"Something like that."

"You're being evasive, Will," she said.

* * *

On her way to the bridge that morning, Deanna Troi stopped by sickbay and found Will Riker reclining on his bed, speaking with Dr. Crusher. She sensed that they were in the midst of an important discussion, and didn't want to interrupt, especially since Beverly had a full day ahead. Six, new medical staffers had arrived overnight aboard the expected personnel shuttle, and would begin their orientation at 1300 hours.

While no one was happier about those new arrivals than Dr. Crusher, one of the nurses just getting off duty was relieved for different reasons.

"I liked the autonomy of being on nights, but much prefer dayshifts," Suravi Bhat remarked to Deanna. Bhat was stowing equipment for the oncoming shift. Her last night shift would be tonight, then she'd have 24 hours to acclimate back to days. "And that probably won't be very difficult."

"Will must have had a good night," Deanna remarked. "He looks well-rested."

"He did. He actually slept," Bhat said. "He didn't need to be medicated to rest. Lt. Yar visited with him briefly last evening, and I believe that helped him immensely. He needed that."

Deanna smiled, genuinely glad to hear that, having sensed shortly after her arrival back from her conference that Will and Lt. Yar had forced distance from each other, and also sensed that it wasn't their decision. She'd meant to discuss this with Will before the Sorian incident, so she was glad to hear that things seemed to be better between the two. "Commander Riker and Lt. Yar have a unique relationship," she replied.

"They seem to," Bhat remarked. "He'll need friends like that during his recovery. Now comes the second hard part."

"I do sense some impatience in him, for his recovery to magically be over," Deanna said, nodding in his direction.

"That will be his biggest obstacle," Bhat said. "I'm glad you're well-versed in neuropsychology."

"I am," Troi said. "This will be challenging, however, because Will and I know each other so well."

"My neuropsych rounds always were more difficult when I _didn't_ know the patient well," Bhat remarked. "But I suppose it can be turned around on a caregiver if patients are personally acquainted prior to treatment."

"It can," Troi nodded. "If the counselor or caregiver allows personal bias to come before treatment. Still, it's helpful to know the psychological baseline of any patient before assisting with that recovery."

"I'm glad you're here for him," Bhat said.

Troi smiled, sensing something else. Bhat's eyes had been drawn elsewhere, behind Deanna, toward a certain security ensign who was waiting near the sickbay entrance. Julio Barajas was off duty that day, and had stopped by accompany Bhat to an after-shift meal. They had been dating since getting to know each other during the rescue mission to retrieve Riker and Yar from 21st century Earth.

"And I'm glad for you two!" Deanna said, prompting a flush of giddy embarrassment from Bhat.

"We do enjoy each other's company," she admitted.

* * *

While Deanna chatted with Suravi Bhat, Will suddenly had an impulse to come clean to Dr. Crusher about something that really wasn't any of Beverly's business...or anyone else's business, for that matter. He didn't realize that his ability to be discreet was somewhat impaired by his injury and recovery process, which tended to manifest in impulsiveness and hyper-emotionalism.

"—truth? Tasha and I don't really have a choice," Will admitted, keeping his voice low while spilling an order that normally never would have been discussed. "Captain Picard laid the law down shortly after we returned from Earth, said that such close friendships aboard the _Enterprise_ was bad for discipline, smacked of insubordination, the way we were 'palling around' all the time off duty. And from that perspective, it does make sense."

Beverly Crusher's mouth fell open.

"It doesn't at all make sense!" she said. "The Starfleet of today is not the Starfleet it was when Jean-Luc began his service. I knew him then, and he's the same today. He wasn't thrilled about having families aboard the ship."

Will nodded. "Very true," he replied.

"But now you're facing a tough recovery, and not just in the physical sense," Beverly said. "You need people around you who know you, who can help motivate you. The next two days are going to be frustrating."

"I figured I'd be out of here by then," he said. "I'll be stuck in here?"

"No, you won't," she replied. "You'll be on cabin rest with medical staff making regular house calls while you re-acclimate. But that won't be for awhile. You'll need to work up to physical capacity to achieve that first goal. I know you're at a 45-degree angle now, but we'll be sitting you up within the hour, and you're likely to experience some weakness, even some lightheadedness."

"Can you give me something for that?"

"I could, but I won't," she said. "I'll medicate pain, at first, but I need to know how your consciousness is being impacted by the positional exertion. If you're moving too fast, it will do you more harm than good. I wish I would be more precise with predicting how you'll do. My advice is to take your recovery slowly, and don't push yourself too hard, no matter how much you want to get out of here. Physical therapy will be in later this morning, and after you're able to sit up some more, then the real work will begin."

"When can I take a shower?" Will asked. "I feel gross."

"Later in the shift, once you're comfortable sitting up and dangling your legs, we would allow you to have an actual shower," Beverly replied. "A real shower does feel much better than even the best, bed bath. And you had a bed bath yesterday afternoon, just before you were extubated."

"A bed bath..."

"Yes," she said. "Nursing staff gave you a bed bath during their Q-6 assessments," she replied. "It's standard procedure for bedridden patients, and trust me, you needed it. You were covered with blood."

Will sighed, and suppressed an impulse to cover his face with his hands.

"What's wrong?"

He shrugged.

"Don't be embarrassed," she said. "I stopped blushing 20 years ago. We don't think anything of it, and neither should you, except to enjoy the pampering while it lasts, because once the physical therapists come in, they'll be putting you through some rough paces."

"I can't wait," he muttered.

"That's the spirit!" Beverly said, a mock smile spreading across her face, though she was still very worried that Captain Picard evidently had tamped down on close friendships between senior staff members. That was news to her, and it was disturbing. She was about to say something more about it when Deanna Troi appeared at her side.

Crusher was relieved to see Deanna. After witnessing what transpired between Will Riker and Tasha Yar the evening before in sickbay, Beverly had requested that the counselor stop by sickbay to speak with Will. She had thought at first that Will's emotional response to seeing his friend was the first stage of his neuropsychological recovery from such critical injuries. But after speaking with Will this morning, she knew that post-traumatic neuropsych reaction was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

Will was glad to see Deanna, and now he was carrying on as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. He was already acting like himself, again.

"Good morning," he said to her, his voice flirtatious. "Want to give me a bath?"

"I think I'll leave that task to the professionals," she replied, and Deanna's bemused expression told Beverly everything she needed to know.

_He's avoiding the deeper issues,_ Beverly thought. _She's onto him. Funny how he's Mr. Tough Guy around us, but when Tasha sat here last night he was overcome for several minutes and neither of them seemed to think it was a big deal. _

* * *

After again warning Will against trying to sit up on his own before PT began later that morning, Beverly pulled Deanna into her office.

"I'm glad you're here," Beverly remarked, as she and Deanna walked together into the chief physician's office where they could talk without also informing everyone else in sickbay of their topic of conversation—their patient, who was trying to inch his way up in bed. _That shouldn't last too long,_ Beverly thought. _He'll get lightheaded and stop. Once PT begins, he'll decide within minutes that he's enjoyed as much physical activity as he can stand. That's when the real fun will start. _Dr. Crusher anticipated a rough go with Will Riker. He could be as stubborn as he was ambitious.

"He's already beginning his neuropsych phase," Beverly continued, nodding in Will's direction. "I think he'll benefit from your help. I was especially glad to read of your neuropsychological counseling credentials. I'm also hoping you can shed some light on something he said, this morning. I was very troubled by it."

"What was that?"

"Some background . . . last night I spoke with Lt. Yar after the second away team returned from Sora," Beverly said. "By the way, I plan to issue a commendation for her assistance. She's got quite a bit of aptitude for medicine that she's overly modest about, but that's a story for another time. After our conversation, I had to practically force her to see Will before she left for the night. I thought that was odd."

Deanna nodded. "Commander Riker and Lt. Yar had quite a few ups and downs while they were stranded in the 21st century, and those seem to have carried over here, as well," she said. "When I returned from my conference, I sensed tension between them, but it didn't seem to interfere with their duties, so I didn't address it. I often sense minor tensions between members of the crew and have found that unless they can't solve it on their own, it's best for me not to interfere. In this case, I sense that their tension is from an outside source, not unlike that felt by children or subordinates who are afraid they'll get into trouble for breaking a rule."

"That's exactly what it is!" Beverly said, tapping her desk with her hand. "Last night, when Commander Riker woke up and saw that Tasha was sitting next to him, he actually cried. And she brushed tears off his face as if it were second-nature for her. At first, I thought he was beginning his neuropsych phase and that she just happened to be there when it began. That's why I called you to be here, this morning."

"But there's more to it," Deanna remarked, sensing there was more to this story. Her expression had softened not only at the thought of Will being so upset, but that she wasn't in sickbay when it happened . . . and a bit of jealousy that Tasha was the one present, instead.

"This morning, just before you came in, Will told me that he and Tasha were ordered to cool off their friendship, and it hit me that was why she was so reluctant to see him. She was following orders and she was afraid they would both get into trouble for interacting in any way other than for business, only," Beverly said. "That's very troubling for me, that Captain Picard would make such an order."

Deanna nodded. "This does raise some troubling questions for me, as well," she said. "This is a galaxy-class starship, full of families and couples, and times have changed. Starfleet is recognizing the inherent importance for sentient beings to have and nurture relationships during long deployments. I had understood healthy relationships to be not only acceptable, but encouraged."

"I would hope so," Beverly said. "I've got one of my top nurses carrying on with one of Lt. Yar's ensigns . . . not that this is a bad thing . . ."

"Nurse Bhat and Ensign Barajas are a good match."

"But it makes me wonder, what is acceptable in this new age, when families can reside aboard a starship, but apparently close friendships betweeen senior staffers is discouraged?" Beverly said.

"Well, there are multiple sides to every impression, and every impression is biased," Deanna said. "I have always sensed in Captain Picard a need to maintain order. On Earth, Commander Riker and Lt. Yar's relationship had evolved into a very close one, more akin to brother and sister than anything else, regardless of what anyone might believe. They abandoned a chain of command because it brought too much attention that might have proven dangerous for them. Now that they're back aboard the _Enterprise_, their relationship was bound to change. It had to change."

"Surely that doesn't mean they can't even have lunch together once in a while, or have a friendly chat, or do that basketball exercise they seem to enjoy so much," Beverly said. "What is the harm in senior officers being friends?"

"No harm at all, as far as I'm concerned," Deanna said. "You and I are friends and we're senior officers."

"Well, I know he doesn't like families being aboard," Beverly said. "He told me that himself, over dinner, in Ten Forward, where a hundred other people—and families—were carrying on like anyone does. I've known Jean-Luc for years. He isn't bound by anything other than his obligation to Starfleet, and that dedication has made him such an outstanding captain. He loves this new ship with all it's bells and whistles, but is intimidated by the new rules that have come with it."

"Have you told him that?"

"I'd hoped you would tell him that," Deanna said, her expression wry. "You know him better than I do."

"He's being a hypocrite," Beverly said. "And we both know it."

"He's growing into his new role as a father figure to everyone aboard the _Enterprise_, Starfleet and civilian alike," Deanna said. "Captain Picard has much experience with command in Starfleet, but has never been a father. He is as intimidated as any new father would be. How many babies have you delivered in your career?"

She shrugged. "Hundreds," she replied.

"And how many of those new fathers had never before held an infant?"

Beverly looked away, recalling how her own husband was so leery of cradling newborn Wesley shortly after his birth. _He's about the size of a loaf of bread, _Jack had marveled._ What if I drop him?_

_You won't drop him,_ Beverly had reassured him, though she'd had the same reservations when she first began playing the catching role as delivery physician during her internship at Starfleet Medical. Newborn babies are slippery, and all physicians and AP nurses learn the right technique to keep those slimy neonates from slipping from their grip during delivery. Beverly remembered how scared she was of dropping the first baby she'd caught, and felt great relief that she did not drop that baby—even if it would have only fallen 20 centimeters onto an antigrav mat that was part of the birthing chair. It was designed for that very purpose, so the only thing injured during a slip-and-fall scenario would be the physician's pride.

Beverly smiled as the figurative realization hit her.

"Captain Picard is afraid he'll drop the baby," she said. "He's afraid to lose control."

"Yes," Deanna replied. "We are, in a sense, his children. He wants his house in order, and wants his crew to be a well-disciplined reflection of their captain, even if 245 souls aboard this ship are civilian. He's still getting acquainted with his new ship, and these new rules he now must follow. He's still getting to know all of us, and learning about our needs as people."

Beverly glanced out her office door, overhearing Will Riker's predictable protests. Physical therapy staffers were helping him to sit up to a 60-degree angle, and he was begging to be put back down. It has begun, she thought. He wanted up, now he wants back down.

"Sounds like PT is beginning," Deanna remarked, a slight grin perceptible on her face.

"Remember, it'll be good for him," Beverly said. "Either way, you know how important it is that he works through his recovery emotionally and mentally, and not just physically. His body won't heal if his mind doesn't recover."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, 1330 hours**

Beverly Crusher started up the lift twice, and chickened out twice, hopping off on decks she hadn't planned to visit. She paraded around Engineering, attracting the immediate attention of Chief Engineer Logan, who was understandably curious about her presence there.

"Who's sick?" he asked.

"Oh, no one," Beverly said, and picked up her pace. Though she didn't absolutely dislike anyone aboard the _Enterprise_, Logan had a smarmy quality that really rubbed her the wrong way. She shared Tasha Yar's opinion that Logan was an arrogant ass—well, everyone shared that opinion. Geordi LaForge especially was not fond of him. "Just taking the scenic route to the bridge for my daily update."

"Kind of out of your way, isn't it?"

"It's helpful for me to review where things are throughout the ship," she said, even though she knew the ship by heart, by now. She hustled away, ducking behind a Jeffries tube entrance that many officers used as a ladder shortcut to other decks. Beverly wasn't fond of ladders, but eagerly took the ladder up, up away from Logan.

Crusher climbed up two decks to the edge of one of the ship's main thoroughfares, along one of the upper cabin decks. Already out of breath and hoping her lab coat didn't cause her to slip, she decided two decks was enough_. This time, I'm taking the lift all the way to the bridge . . ._

"Good morning, doctor," Deanna Troi stood idly beside the tube, almost as if she'd been waiting for her to emerge from it. How does she do that? Beverly thought.

"Good morning, counselor," Beverly said.

"You know, there is a positive aspect to your procrastination," Deanna remarked, a barely perceptible smile just beginning to emerge. "You're getting great exercise in the process."

"Sometimes, I wish you weren't empathic," Beverly muttered.

"I'll walk with you to the bridge," Deanna said, ignoring the jest, sensing that Beverly was glad to have run into her. "Have you thought about speaking with the captain during your daily briefing?"

"I've thought about it."

"And?"

"It'll depend on the mood he's in," Beverly remarked. "If he's in a good mood, he'll be more apt to listen to me. But if not, I won't even touch on the topic.

Deanna nodded. "That sounds like a great plan."

"Have you said anything to him, yet?"

"Not about Lt. Yar, no," Deanna replied. "But if Commander Riker's recovery could be assisted by her presence, then yes, I will say something. But only after your meeting with Captain Picard."

"I can't get you to change your mind accompanying me into the briefing?"

"It wouldn't be appropriate," Deanna said. "Captain Picard would know immediately that something is up if I were in there during a medical briefing, even if it involves neuropsychology."

"Now I'm glad you waited for me so we could chat about that," Crusher remarked, stopping along the right side of the corridor where they'd been walking. "We had to put Riker back on bedrest after his shower. He just got too lightheaded, even sitting up on the shower chair. Martinez was in there helping him, and Will was so weak that Martinez did all the work for him, then rinsed him off and got him back to bed. He nearly passed out."

Deanna sighed. "And now he's probably angry and embarrassed."

"That's putting it mildly."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise, Captain's ready room, 1400 hours**_

"—relieved to hear that he's doing so much better, doctor," Picard remarked. "He was quite gravely injured, from what I understand."

"He was," she said. "And now he's beginning his rehabilitation."

Picard nodded, remembering a time when he was younger, more hot-headed, stupidly arrogant, running his mouth in a bar. He got a knife in the chest for his trouble, and now had a replacement heart ticking along as a souvenir. Picard well understood the frustration that Will faced.

"I remember spending two, fun-filled days in a starbase sickbay, rehabbing from a heart replacement," he said, though Beverly knew all this, already. As ship's physician, she knew everyone's medical history. She had known Jean-Luc Picard had the replacement even when Jack still was alive. Picard had recounted the tale over a bottle of wine from his family's vineyard. He'd been a more jovial man then, well before the weight of command had taken hold.

She nodded. "Yes, I remember the story about how that happened," she said.

"It's not exactly something I advertise," he said. "However, I understand what Will is facing from the perspective of wanting to do more while pacing oneself to avoid further injury."

"Then perhaps it might help him to hear a motivational speech, sir," Crusher remarked. "He's being stubborn."

Picard brushed that aside. "Will Riker doesn't need a motivational speech," he said. "He needs a good, swift kick in the posterior, doctor. You said it yourself during your briefing. Perhaps I should send Lt. Worf to deliver that figurative blow."

"Lt. Yar would—," Beverly began.

He began shaking his head.

"Permission to speak freely, sir," Crusher said.

"I've a feeling you would, anyway," he said. "Granted, doctor."

"What is so threatening about senior officers being friends?"

He sighed. "Is that what this is about?" he said. "Shortly after those two returned from their inadvertant, time travel adventure, I saw them swatting each other with towels on C deck, as they were walking through the main corridor. That is neither professional, nor acceptable, doctor. Off-duty or not, they are looked upon as leaders by everyone else aboard this ship. Rumors were rampant, and I felt it imperative to put a stop to it."

"What of other friendships aboard the ship, sir?" she asked, hoping she didn't come across as flippant.

"Really, doctor—," he began.

"I get that you don't need friends, or family, or anyone but subordinates and Starfleet brass," Crusher said, her voice terse, direct. "But the rest of us who are still human do need each other. It's what motivates us to function as a team."

"Were your plea not laced with contractions, I'd say you sounded like Mr. Data," he remarked, but Beverly noticed something else. He wasn't angry.

"If it isn't interfering with their duties and doesn't violate regulations, it shouldn't matter where or with whom Starfleet officers spend their off-duty time," Beverly began, and stopped abruptly as the doorchime rang.

"Yes, come," he called out. The door opened, and Deanna Troi strode into the ready room.

"Counselor, what impeccable timing."

"Sir?" her brow furrowed slightly, though she had an inkling of what was on the table. She could sense it—inherent relief from both Picard and Crusher, that she was present.

"Did you have something to report, counselor?" Picard asked. _Whatever her reason for being here, she may as well get it out of the way before I drag her into this discussion,_ he thought.

"Sir, permission to leave the bridge to speak with Commander Riker in sickbay," she said.

"Has his condition changed?" Crusher interrupted, though it was a pertinent question.

"Not really," Deanna replied. "It's just that he is refusing further physical therapy. He claims he's exhausted, but PT personnel are disputing that. They fear his frustration level has risen to the point where it's interfering with his therapy, and requested my assistance."

"This is hardly surprising, counselor," Picard replied. "He's been through quite the ordeal, on many levels. And on that note, Dr. Crusher and I were discussing Commander Riker and Lt. Yar's relationship."

"Oh, that," Deanna nodded. _So, I did walk in here at a good time,_ she thought.

"And, I would appreciate your honest opinion on it, counselor," he remarked. "Please, sit down."

Deanna sat—rather stiffly—into the chair beside Beverly's. She hadn't exactly rehearsed her words, but she knew exactly what she would say, given the chance.

"Will Riker and Natasha Yar relied on each other during their time away from the _Enterprise_ in a world that was, literally, foreign to them," she said. "They became very close friends in the process. As glad as they were to be able to return to their own time, this has been an awkward transition, and they're under the impression that they are not to discuss with each other how they're coping. No one else on the ship can understand how isolating this has been for both of them. I can sense that they are frustrated, and that they feel no one else truly understands that."

"What's your point?"

"Sir, I think that perhaps your initial order should be revisited, especially in light of all that's happened in the past several days," she said.

"What this ship doesn't need is officers fraternizing with each other!" Picard raised his voice. "It sets a poor example, it leads to unnecessary drama and conflict, which is exactly what is happening now. I don't want that to be a distraction."

"Commander Riker and Lt. Yar did not have a sexual relationship!" Deanna countered, a bit more forcefully than she'd intended. "They became close friends with ups and downs, and never crossed that line. They've both told me that, together and separately, and I can sense that they are telling the truth. Making the committed decision to maintain a platonic relationship, no matter how tempting it is to cross that line, takes a great deal of discipline, especially when two people are living together and sleeping in the same room for 21 months. We are on a long-term deployment, and there's a reason why Starfleet opted for the _Enterprise_ to carry families. Sentient beings need companionship, and there's nothing at all wrong with friendship."

Picard regarded her silently.

"And frankly, sir, if fraternization between officers were really an issue, that needs to be addressed with around 300 or so couples who either are married, in committed relationships or engaged in various flings aboard this ship. It happens everywhere, but it didn't happen between these two. _That_ is discipline."

"Counselor—"

"Not that I'm the one to be talking," she continued. "Will Riker and I previously were in a romantic relationship, and it hasn't impacted our working closely together aboard the _Enterprise_," she continued, forcing calm over herself. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck. "If anything, our previous relationship and current friendship does lend quite a bit of edge to our service as senior staff aboard our ship."

"That is does, counselor," Picard remarked, then glanced at Dr. Crusher.

"Sir, whether you want to admit it or not, every soul aboard this ship regards you not only as a captain, but as a father figure," Crusher said. "Lt. Yar took on the Level 10 because she felt she had let her skills deteriorate, and that she needed to redeem her abilities. She has a tremendous level of respect for you. She is so determined to regain her edge—and then some—that she took on a martial arts program that no human being has been able to master without being seriously injured. From what I heard from Lt. Worf, he's surprised she wasn't hurt worse than she was."

"I was under the impression from Will Riker that he was even more angry at her than I was after her Level 10 stunt," Picard mentioned.

"Oh, he was," Crusher said. "I was there when he let her know it while she was confined to a sickbay bed. I was also there last night when she finally had a chance to speak with him just after he was extubated, and he made considerable progress while she was there. She was a motivating force for him, and I think she'd have the same impact now. Commander Riker needs that, whether he knows this or not, especially now that he's pulling his 'refusal of treatment' stunt. And I knew that he would do this! He has such a stubborn, prideful temperament that makes rehab an absolute nightmare—not for him, for us! If he won't do it, he won't do it."

"Well, I can order him to do it," Picard said. "And I can send in reinforcements: A doctor who can reassure him that he is physically sound and won't drop dead while exerting himself; a counselor who can reassure him that rehabilitation isn't forever and that he will recover; and a certain security chief who knows him well enough to push the right buttons."

Both Crusher and Troi smiled at the same time.

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, rear tactical station on the bridge, 1430 hours**

_I should call_, Tasha thought. _Just to see how he's doing._ The thought had crossed her mind throughout the morning as she stood at her Tactical station on the bridge. But like Dr. Crusher, she found other things to do to put it off. _He's probably a bit embarrassed about last night, _she told herself._ Besides, he's busy with PT._

She picked at her lunch, then returned to duty, finished an hourly security sweep, and found a seat at the bridge's rear tactical station, where she could have a semi-private conversation. She commed through directly to the speaker directly over Will's bed.

"Good morning, sir," she said. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing lousy," Will had replied, and Tasha knew immediately what was going on. He'd just been through physical therapy, and either was tired, or frustrated, or both.

"Did I call at a bad time?" she managed to say.

"Anytime is a bad time," he snapped.

"What do you mean by that?" she asked.

"It's not your business, lieutenant!" he had replied, raising his voice.

"Would you like me to stop by later?" she replied, trying to keep her voice even while saving face.

"I don't really care if you stop by again, or not," he replied, and then cut off the channel.

Tasha stood dumbfounded, now embarrassed that everyone at the tactical station had heard that exchange. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was to let anyone in on their business. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw that Dr. Crusher and Captain Picard were standing by the lift. She didn't think they'd heard the exchange. If they had, they'd have said something by now.

But she knew that at least one other officer had heard it, almost certainly. She glanced sideways at Worf, who abruptly looked away. But Worf wore his emotions on his sleeve, and Tasha could tell he was troubled—though she didn't know which part of that conversation bothered him, the most.

"What?" she finally asked, a bit more forcefully than she'd planned. But that was fine with Worf, who took terse conversation as intention, and therefore, took it more seriously.

"I do not know enough to comment on the situation," Worf said.

_Good answer,_ she thought, but realized he was entitled to some explanation. "He's just frustrated, hacked off at everyone and everything, and I happened to call when he needed to vent. He outranks me, so I'm not going to worry about it."

_I'm not supposed to be worried about it, anyway,_ she thought. _What Will does isn't my business._ But if they were still on Earth, she'd be right in his face. She missed those days, now, even when he was irritated at her. She did her best to disengage her mind, and refocus on the sector the _Enterprise_ was warping through—even if it was devoid of anything that could distract her.

"Lieutenant Yar," Captain Picard's voice was close, right behind her.

She whirled around. "Yes, sir," she replied, noticing only then that Dr. Crusher was no longer on the bridge. Deanna was standing beside him, instead—and her dark eyes, as always, were impassive.

"I've been informed that a sickbay patient of your acquaintance would greatly benefit from your motivational expertise," Picard said. "And based on the comm conversation I just overheard, he also needs your firm foot placed solidly against his recalcitrant posterior."

Tasha barely suppressed a huge grin, even as Deanna's broke through. She hardly knew what to say in response.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Picard said, as intense as ever, though she knew he was teasing her.

"Yes, sir," she said, a grin spreading across her face as she walked past enroute to the lift. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank _you_, lieutenant," Picard nodded, watching as both Yar and Troi hopped onto the lift. "We need our team back together."


	8. Chapter 8

**Future's Present, Chapter 8**

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, sickbay, 1500 hours**

A broad grin spread across Will Riker's face as that cute, perky med-tech appeared around the corner again, his time carrying a tray with real food . . .and then she delivered it to the ensign across the room.

Will sighed.

He didn't know why the ensign was in Sickbay, and didn't care. He could feel his mouth beginning to water as the heavenly aroma of solid food reached him. Now that he had "all his guts", as Beverly Crusher so aptly put it, he wanted to put them to good use with a big meal. He imagined something hearty, full of vitamins . . . _even replicated steak sounds good, maybe some salmon . . . mmm . . ._

Nearly two days after sustaining life-threatening injuries in an explosion on Sora, Will finally had stabilized enough for physicians to complete his last round of organ regenerations earlier that morning. Now that his vital organs functioned fully, medical staff could focus on what was left of his digestive organs. He'd lost two meters of small intestine and part of his large intestine.

Dr. Crusher wasn't a big believer in rushing regens, despite what the medical journals said about how supposedly stable it was to do all those regens at once. Crusher had focused first on the vital organs, and then on the digestive organs one day later. Abdominal organ regeneration deviated some of Will's vital bloodflow to those abdominal organs—a shift that he couldn't have tolerated safely until today, in Beverly's opinion. Dr. Selar didn't agree. She felt Will could have withstood the regens all at the same time.

But Beverly Crusher was chief medical officer. Will would wait one more day for "all his guts", and that was that.

Will didn't know any different, but didn't understand why Dr. Crusher couldn't magically fix that blood pressure issue, the way she seemed to fix everything else. Now that he was conscious, everything seemed to take forever. Thus began Will Riker's first lesson in GI Regen 101.

"Ever notice how you get tired after a big meal?" Beverly had explained to him that morning, just before the procedure began. "When you introduce food or other activity into the digestive tract, it shunts blood from other areas of the body, and those other areas include your vital organs, like your brain and your heart. That's why you get tired. Organ regeneration is so demanding that it deviates that bloodflow threefold."

"If I had more than 8 meters of small intestine before all this happened, why would I miss two meters of it?" Will asked.

"You'll miss it once you start losing weight and having malnutrition issues," Crusher replied. "A big man like you needs those nutrients that 2 meters of intestine can absorb. Without it, you'd eventually weaken. So, sleep tight, and we'll have the regen finished in a little over an hour."

Will been sedated through having 2.2 total meters of his small intestine regenerated. He figured he'd be good as new when he was awakened at 0945 hours. . . and then he heard that those intestines needed to "regain their motility" before he ate.

Now it was 1500 hours.

"So, when can I eat?" Will asked the technician. He'd flagged her down after she'd left the tray across the room, and was trying to ignore the ensign ripping into his lunch with some gusto.

Marta was an all-in-one med tech who floated throughout Sickbay, relieving physicians and nurses of the more basic needs any patient might need. Will suspected these were the kinds of duties that Tasha had slogged through during her Sickbay Sentence several days ago. Marta was a little younger than Tasha, maybe 25, an ensign, cute, no wedding ring. Will appreciated her company, but he didn't want to seem _too_ needy. _That's probably a big turnoff,_ he thought.

Will was trying not to think too much about his earlier humiliation. At 1130, he'd finally been able to sit up without feeling faint, but promptly grew lightheaded when nurses swung his feet over to dangle off the edge of the bed. He begged to be let back down, and they acquiesced to his wishes, adjusted something with medications he still needed, and let him rest.

Dr. Crusher and both nurses conferred, their decisions a blur to Will's foggy mind. He dozed, not caring what they'd said until about 1345 hours, when he woke and opted to sit up on his own. It felt great, sitting up, looking around. He felt human. He wanted a shower and wanted to eat. At 1400 hours, two nurses practically shoved him off the bed and made him stand up. They assured Will that his blood pressure would drop slightly, that it was normal, that he'd be just fine once he was ambulating.

Will's head felt as if it would spin around, and he was convinced he'd sag to the deck. If he'd had food in his stomach, he'd have vomited on the spot.

"You need to get used to standing and moving again," one of the nurses had said, giving him a hypo spray of something called "micropressor" to give his BP a small boost. "Once you regain physical mobility and motility, then you can eat."

"I need to lie down, again," he said, closing his eyes. He could feel his knees wobbling. "Really. I need to lie down. I'm lightheaded."

"You're still conscious, your readings are normal for your stage of recovery," the tech replied. "You should stay up for at least 10 more minutes."

"Seriously—," Will argued. He allowed his eyes to float shut, but his world still spun.

"Sir, how long do you want to be here?" one of the nurses said, bluntly. She was a lieutenant, and had been rehabbing people for years. She was used to the excuses and wasn't having them. Commander Riker had been languishing for more than three hours since his regen was finished, and he'd already refused one ambulation. It was time for him to be on his feet.

"I'm not well enough to sit up," he muttered.

"You _are_ well enough to sit up," she replied, her tone more terse. "You just don't want to do it!"

"That's right! I don't!" he practically shouted back.

"You're refusing further treatment, again?"

"Yes! Just let me lie down."

* * *

**Sickbay, 1515 hours**

"So, why are you still in bed?"

Will had thrown his arm up over his eyes to block the bright, overhead light. He felt awful—more humiliated than injured, but still . . . the familiar voice brought him out of his relative reverie, and he peeked out from below his arm.

"Hey Tash," he said. _I was so nasty towards her earlier, _he thought. _And here she is, anyway._

"Hey back," she replied.

"Sorry about earlier," he said. He recalled being very terse with her over the comm. She'd called him right after his last stand-up act, when his guts were in knots and he wanted to throttle the senior nurse who was scowling at him from across Sickbay. "I'd just finished rehab."

"It happens. How's rehab going?" she replied, choosing not to discuss the snippy remarks he'd made earlier. That struck Will as very odd, that she didn't have some smartass retort ready for him in response to how he'd snapped at her, earlier. "I figured you'd be upright by now."

"Oh, I'm too lightheaded," he said, modulating his voice so it sounded weaker than it really was. "It's not a good idea."

"Did you have a complication?" she asked, her expression falsely inquisitive.

_Uh oh,_ he thought. Will saw through that, immediately. He could read Tasha Yar like a book, and now he knew she was in on this. He _knew _she was part of it. The medical team had sucked her into it, and somehow Picard must have approved it because she was here at 1515 hours, in the middle of her shift.

"You really need to work on your poker face," he muttered.

Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand what poker has to do with any of this."

"You're in on this," he stated, bluntly.

She nodded, knowing better than to lie about it. She was a worse liar than she was a poker player . . . which wasn't saying much. "Look, rehabbing is hard, and I get that—," she began.

"You don't get this," he said, shaking his head.

"Will, you are looking at the one other person on this ship who collectively has spent more time in here than you have," Dr. Crusher remarked as she moved to stand beside Tasha.

"No surprise there," Will remarked.

"Want to go for a walk?" Tasha asked.

"Not really."

"Well, you get to go for a walk," Beverly said, adjusting Will's sickbay bed so it would sit him up.

"Not too fast," Will began. But the top half of the bed kept elevating at the same speed. "Wait—."

"Your blood pressure is normal," Crusher said, then began lowering the bottom portion of the bed so it bed itself now resembled a reclining chair.

"I don't feel good," Will said. He closed his eyes.

"You look great, compared to how you looked yesterday," Tasha replied.

"Shut up," Will muttered. He'd opened his eyes again, but shaded them with one hand.

"This is going to be so much fun, Will," Tasha said, ignoring his 'shut up' remark and grabbing the ambulation hoverbar from beneath the bed, which now had Will sitting up with his legs dangling. Beverly paused the bed until Will lowered his hand from his face and glared at Tasha.

"Here," she said, holding the hoverbar out to him until he reluctantly grabbed it. The gravity bar was programmed emit a support field around him once he held it and put pressure on it. "Squeeze that when you're ready. I've heard you already know what this is."

She glanced across the room at one of the other nurses, who raised her eyebrows. Tasha nodded in response. They had taught her a few tricks of their trade before she agreed to help him out, and now they were enjoying the spectacle of a stubborn patient who finally was getting his.

"I want to eat, first," Will said.

"You can't eat until you walk," Beverly said. "You know that."

"I don't have the energy to walk," Will said. "I need to eat. I'm really, really hungry."

"Ambulation will aid in motility prior to eating," Dr. Crusher said. "You know, before we had these sensors to detect peristalsis, patients sometimes waited for hours, sometimes days, before they were allowed to eat. Physicians used to need to wait for a patient to pass gas. Now we can detect it easily with our sensors."

"That was interesting, thanks a lot," Will muttered.

"We should feed him some TexMex," Tasha interjected, half-serious. "He'll fart, trust me."

"See what I put up with for 21 months?" Will argued, his expression half-outraged and half embarrassed, as a sincere smile spread across Beverly's face.

"Ready to stand up?" Beverly said, almost too sweetly.

"No."

"Hold that hoverbar in front of you," Tasha said. "It's activated for 50 percent support, so get ready."

"Fifty percent!" his eyes pleaded with Dr. Crusher even as the 'seat' portion of the bed inclined, forcing him to either support his own weight with his feet, or push against the hoverbar with his arms. "I'm going to need a hell of a lot more than 50 percent."

* * *

The bed now vertical, Will stood shaking, holding the hoverbar in front of him. A force field encircled his waist to hoist him up in case he plummeted—but as Tasha had said, it was only on 50 percent. Will was convinced he'd his knees would buckle beneath him. Already, they were shaking.

Dr. Crusher noticed his knees, glanced at the bio readings, and knew he was fine. He was weakened and needed to recondition. Will interpreted shaking knees as a sign that he needed to sit down, immediately.

"You're doing great!" Dr. Crusher said. "All your readings are normal, looks like you're on your way, Commander! Take a step forward."

"I'm going to pass out."

"No, you're not. Take a step forward."

Will shuffled his bare foot across the short carpet on the deck. "I can't move my foot across . . . I'm going to trip."

"Not if you start picking up your feet, you won't," Tasha remarked.

"What the hell do you know about it? When did you become such a medical expert after two shifts spent cleaning up vomit and emptying the refuse?" Will snapped. He'd shuffled his left foot, then his right, and was now more than a meter away from his bed.

"You're being an asshole," Tasha snapped back. "You want to keep feeling sorry for yourself because you didn't just bounce back from being dead?"

He glared at her.

"I think you've got this well in hand, lieutenant," Beverly said. "I'll be in my office."

"Thanks, again," Tasha smiled.

"Thank for what?" Will remarked, glaring sideways at Tasha. "Why in the hell are you in here, anyway? "

"Because you've pissed off everyone else in here," she replied. "Why? Am I pissing _you_ off?"

"Captain Picard already has warned you about your questionable language, lieutenant," Will snapped. "You're about to earn a one-way trip to the brig."

"Whatever," she replied, and touched a button on the hoverbar, lowering the assist threshold to 25 percent."

He began wobbling, struggling because suddenly, the bar was tipping more than it had been.

"Why'd you do that? I'm going to fall."

"Not if you don't want to," she replied. "You're using this as a crutch. Quit leaning against it. Balance with your feet and legs."

Will's knees buckled, and he sagged to the floor, supported by the hoverbar against an outright fall. It merely allowed him to sit gently on his knees, then lowered him slowly the rest of the way to the floor. His legs now folded neatly beneath him, he glared up at her.

"See!" he said. "Look what you did!"

"I didn't do it," she replied. "You did it. You're all right. Stand back up, and let's try it again."

"Not with you, I won't!"

"Fine," she said, shrugging her shoulders and turning away, evidently heading toward Beverly Crusher's office. He glanced around. Other sickbay staffers didn't seem at all concerned that a formerly critical patient was now sitting on his own feet on the floor. They had glanced in his direction, but did nothing.

_They're in on this, too! They're leaving me, _Will thought.

"Get back here!" he shouted at Tasha, who by now was halfway to Crusher's office. She turned on her heel and glared at him, but made no move to comply with his order.

"Did you not hear me?" he said, raising his voice.

"Half the ship heard you."

"I ordered you to get back over here!"

"Captain Picard ordered you to get your ass out of bed!" she shouted back. "And he ordered me to make sure you do."

"Stop patronizing me," he said. "I'm not a child, and I outrank you, lieutenant."

"Stop being a quitter."

"I'm not a quitter!"

"Bullshit!" she said, her face right in front of his. "You're parked on the sickbay floor, right in the same place where you nearly bled to—actually, you _did_ bleed to death right here. You were bleeding out of 70-something new holes that you weren't born with! Everyone here thinks you're feeling sorry for yourself, but I know better. You're just embarrassed that you haven't bounced back faster—"

"Tash . . ."

"—on the Away Team. The only difference is—"

"Please, shut up," he said, wishing he still could shout at her.

"I'm just getting started."

"If I stand up, would you stop?" he pleaded.

"I'll give you 60 seconds, and then I'll start again until you're standing up."

"One minute until I do what?"

"Until you stand up again," she reached out to grasp his wrist. "Come on."

Will sighed. "So yell at me now, and get it over with. I really need to sit down."

"You are sitting down!"

"In a bed, with my legs propped up so my blood pressure returns to normal . . ."

"Your BP is fine."

"How would you know?"

"Because I can feel the pulse at your wrist. If you have a pulse there, it means your blood pressure is high enough that you can sit up—and probably stand up—safely."

"Probably," he snapped, ripping his arm from her grasp. "And don't touch me. I don't want you handling me."

"You are being such an ass, Will!"

"I need to lie down!" he said. "I'm hungry and exhausted and about to pass out."

"I don't know how you expect to get to that bed if you don't stand up and walk," Tasha said.

"So, help me walk to the bed."

"No. You just jerked your arm away from me and told me to not touch you," she snapped back. "You've got a hoverbar. Help _yourself_ up off the floor."

* * *

Jean-Luc Picard strode intently through the ship, taking the most direct route to Sickbay he could avoid unnecessary "hello, sir" entanglements from well-meaning crew members. He was in no mood. He'd be in a better mood once he knew that his first officer was not only getting better, but being receptive to rehabilitation efforts.

He'd received a few positive updates from Beverly Crusher about Will's progress. He evidently was walking, having been chided out of bed. He suspected that Lt. Yar had something to do with the latest development. Picard had granted her "permission to speak freely" to coax him into adhering to rehabilitation guidelines. Most crewmembers would accept rehabilitation without argument. Will Riker was not one of them.

Picard arrived in Sickbay just in time to see Will trudging to his bed, gripping tightly to a hoverbar while growling—literally—at Tasha Yar, who glared right back. He could tell he'd walked into the midst of an old-fashioned, motivational argument.

"—like an old man," Will muttered, finally reaching his bed and weakly rolling onto it.

"You are an old man," she replied.

"NOT funny, Tasha!" he snapped, then scowled at the foot of the bed. The sheets were tucked into the mattress, which wouldn't do. "Wait, did you tuck that sheet in?"

"No, the bed was changed while you were sitting on the floor," Tasha replied.

"Would you mind untucking the sheet so I can put my legs out straight?"

"Yeah, I'd mind!" she said. "You need to do that yourself. You're more than capable of it."

"I hate when she sheet is tucked into the foot of the bed—!"

"Wah wah wah. . ," Tasha said, emulating a whining child.

Despite himself, Picard found himself laughing aloud.

"Lieutenant," he nodded toward Tasha, who turned toward him and began standing at attention until his 'at ease' wave. But Will saw it, and suddenly knew.

"Sir, this was your idea?" he nearly stammered.

"Absolutely, Number One," Picard said.

"So, I can't send her to the brig for hacking me off?"

"Absolutely not, Will," Picard replied. "I knew she wouldn't mince words, but I had no idea that it would be quite so entertaining."

Will groaned.

"You aren't the first to go through an arduous rehabilitation, Will," Picard said. "You know, I've been through a similar rehab, and I don't need to remind you of how humbling and frustrating the process is. However arrogant I was as the time, I wasn't nearly as stubborn as you. On that mark, you have me beaten."

"Sir, you've been through something similar?"

"A story for another time, from another time," Picard said, and a barely perceptible grin emerged from his normally stoic demeanor.

Picard returned to the bridge, and Tasha glanced over her shoulder and nodded once to Marta, who disappeared around the corner.

"Are you ready to eat?" she asked Will.

"You're going to let me eat?" he looked up at her. "Seriously. I get to eat? No bullshit."

"No bullshit," she smiled.

"Oh, that's great," Will said, a smile breaking across his face. "I thought I'd need to wait."

"No, Dr. Crusher told me that your intestines have regained their motility and that the replications are working well," Tasha said. "All you needed to do was walk, and you did, so you get to eat. I just sent Marta to get your meal."

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" he said, his tone softening. "I'd have been nicer to you."

"You said you were nauseous, sir," she replied. "If you're nauseous, it isn't a good idea for you to be eating."

"Only if you're the one holding the bucket, lieutenant," he said. "You just called me an ass, and sir, within the past 5 minutes."

"That never seemed to bother you, before. You really need a thicker skin."

"I happen to have a very thick skin!"

She made a face. "Eww, I don't want to hear about or see those callouses . . . there are plenty of things about you I'd rather not know."

"Now, wait a minute—," Will flushed, realizing he'd walked right into another, off-color reference about his sexual escapades. Of course, she'd run with it. She teased him about that every chance she had.

She nodded to the other side of his bed, where Marta approached with a tray of food. "I'll be filling in Dr. Crusher on how well you're doing," Tasha said. "If you need anything, I'll be in her office."

"There's nothing _you_ have that I could possibly want," Will muttered.

Tasha shrugged. "All right," she replied. "Enjoy your dinner."

* * *

_That was too easy,_ Will thought, glancing at Tasha as she walked away from him. Had there been more time between her departure and Marta's arrival, he'd have caught on that something else was up. But a smile broke across his face as the tech activated a bedside table that hovered before him. He felt so hungry that he initially ignored the specific food aroma floating off his tray as it was placed in front of him.

"Here are your utensils," Marta said. "And a napkin, and water for now. No caffeine, yet."

Will stared at the tray.

"Looks delicious, sir," she quipped.

"What is this?" he asked, though he already knew what one item was: Cooked green peppers. Will Riker hated green peppers that had been ruined by heat. He didn't like the texture, he didn't like the flavor . . . ANY dish that had green peppers infused into it was absolutely ruined, as far as he was concerned.

The tech smiled, and glanced at her tablet. "I believe that is replicated . . . " she paused, unsure of what she was reading. "I don't know what this is. It must have been specially ordered for you. I believe it says, 'calf fries and steamed, green peppers'."

"Oh no!" Will exclaimed. There was no way in the universe he was eating that, even if it was just replicated proteins. "No way! Do you know what these are?"

"No, sir, this is what was programmed—," the tech began, somewhat flustered.

"Bull testicles!" Will began, wondering how he would explain to this nice, young ensign how he knew this. When they were stranded in the 21st century, he and Tasha had taken a daytrip to a nearby suburb that had a museum both were interested in. They also sampled cuisine at a nearby, greasy-spoon cafe, not knowing that it specialized in serving animals—and parts of animals—that most cooks tossed out with the gristle. Tasha had ordered something called calf fries, which were deep-fried bull testicles. _It sounded interesting,_ she'd explained later as they rode a bus back to their apartment. Will had been horrified enough by her choice, disgusted when she ate them, and sickened by her assessment. _They were a little tough. I think they'd been sitting in the hot grease too long. But they had great flavor._

"Bull what, sir?" Marta's eyes grew wide.

"Tasha!" Will shouted. A few seconds later, Tasha appeared at the door to the doctor's office. Crusher wasn't far behind.

"That didn't take long," Tasha remarked.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Will exclaimed.

Tasha shrugged. "Nope," she replied, calmly. "If I'd wanted to do that, I would have used my hands. Bon appetit."

"May I please have something different?" Will asked, forcing calm over his voice.

"The replicator is around the corner," Tasha remarked as Beverly Crusher emerged from her office to see what Will's fuss was about, this time. "You're cleared to eat whatever you want. So, help yourself."

"But it's all the way across the room!"

"My God, you're whiny," Beverly said, scooping the tray off his bedside table, then pressing a button so the table disappeared, giving Will a clear path. "That hoverbar is right beside your bed, and it'll help support you as you ambulate. So, if you want something different to eat, go get it yourself."

He stared at Dr. Crusher, defeated into realizing what every rehab patient must traverse: They weren't being waited on, anymore. They would need to do for themselves to be cleared for cabin recovery time.

* * *

Crusher walked away from Will, eyeing the food on his tray. "You know, this does look interesting," she remarked. "What are they called, again?"

"I don't know if this was a regional-only delicacy, but it was being served in select establishments in 21st century Missouri," Tasha remarked. "Calf fries are deep-fried bull testicles. I elected to omit the gravy in this program since you said Will does need to watch his sodium intake. But I had some calf fries and they were very good. Will didn't care to try them, though."

"So, how do these compare?" Beverly asked.

Tasha picked one up on the plate and took a bite. She nodded. "These are a good replication! They don't taste as gamey. Nice flavor! Would you like to try one?"

Both Beverly and Marta helped themselves.

"I feel _my_ arteries hardening," Beverly remarked. "But these aren't tough, at all."

"Mmm . . . balls!" Marta said primly, picking one up and taking a big bite. Now in on the joke, she nodded toward Will, who was holding one hand over his eyes, again. "Thank you, sir!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Future's Present, Chapter 9**

* * *

**Aboard the _USS Enterprise_, Will Riker's cabin**

After several days recovering from wounds sustained in an explosion on Sora, Will Riker finally was back in his cool, quiet cabin, away from people who were handling him, poking and prodding, telling him to squeeze his abdominal muscles so he'd be able to stand up straight.

Finally, he'd hobbled down the hall without a hoverbar. Beverly Crusher let him go back to his cabin for another day of rest with regular nurse visits. If he did well during the cabin rest day, she'd clear him for light duty at first, then for full duty probably a day after that. Now that he was over the physical therapy hump, Will imagined further exercises would come more easily.

Tasha Yar had shown up in sickbay with Captain Picard's blessing to harangue Will out of bed earlier that afternoon. He emerged tired and sore, but nonetheless bore grudging gratitude toward her. She knew all his buttons, and pushed most of them. She motivated him by making him mad, and before he knew it, he was shuffling across the sickbay deck. He'd finally been allowed to have a shower that afternoon, in sickbay, where there were plenty of handles and assistance devices should he need them. Despite having had regular, bed baths while he was bed-bound, Will never really felt clean until he'd had a good shower.

Now he was exhausted. It was only 1830 hours, but it felt like he'd just pulled a 24-hour shift.

_I'm going to sleep until noon_, he'd proclaimed to Suravi Bhat, who accompanied him to his cabin to make sure he was settled in with no issues.

_You're a morning person,_ Bhat had replied. _I can't imagine you'd make it past 0800._

_Oh, I'll be very comfortable in my bed at 0800,_ he said. _Trust me._

She shrugged, forcing her own poker face across what she knew about plans for tomorrow. She made small talk for another minute or two, mostly about the chilly temperature Will Riker preferred in his cabin. She didn't know any other human who deliberately kept cabin temperature controls at 13 degrees Celsius. Will had just smiled in response.

Will's circadian rhythm didn't take long to reset, once he was in his comfortably cool cabin. He replicated his favorite meal, salmon with grilled vegetables and a potato, took his time eating it while listening to a snippet of jazz. He went to bed early, by 1945 hours, splayed naked across his bed with only a thin sheet covering him.

He slept soundly until 0700 hours, when he was jolted awake by screaming.

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, bridge, 0930 hours**

At around 0900 hours, Will Riker donned an off-duty outfit and walked throughout the ship, getting the exercise he'd promised Dr. Crusher he would be getting, today. He even stopped by sickbay, where his vital signs were scanned and he was pronounced as doing "very well". Smiling, he walked out of sickbay, hopped on a lift, and visited the bridge.

"Welcome back aboard the bridge, Number One," Picard said, standing up from his chair. "I see that even on medical leave, you just can't stay away."

"Oh, I was awakened by screaming, sir," Will explained, his eyes darting sideways at Lt. Yar, who was pretending to pay attention to her tactical screen. "Hideous, shrill noise from the 21st century, which somehow wound up piping through my cabin at 0800 hours. Only, I couldn't shut it off with a voice command."

"So you had to get out of bed and walk across the room to manually shut off your alarm," Picard said. "That sounds perfectly acceptable to me."

"It was a rude awakening, sir," Riker said.

"I'd say it helped get you back on track for your usual, 0500 wake-up time," Picard replied.

"You were in on this one, too?"

"Actually, I wasn't aware of this one, until Lt. Yar filled me on that you complied with sickbay's wishes to get your exercise. Sounds as if you did that from the start of your day with your wake-up music."

"It certainly wasn't mine," Will replied, turning toward Tasha. "What in the hell _was_ that?"

"Pantera, sir," she replied. "From their last album."

"Thankfully their last," he said. "My ears are still ringing. You are now REQUIRED to play poker with the senior staff when the game convenes, tonight."

Her mouth fell open. Although she'd grown to enjoy the time she spent with the senior staff, there were some activities that never made her feel comfortable. Poker was one of them. She knew it was good practice to play bluffing games, but she'd never had much use for them, mostly because she wasn't very good a bluffing anyone.

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, 1015 hours**

After Will's brief meeting with Picard in the captain's ready room, Tasha caught up to him as he walked through the corridors enroute back to his cabin.

"You going to stay mad at me?" she asked.

"I hope so," Will said, forcing himself to frown at her. "That was a rude awakening."

"You said it yourself, that it was going to be difficult for you to return to 0500 wake-ups," she said. "And I sure could have programmed an 0500 wake-up."

"Yeah, I did say that, didn't I?"

"You did."

"You know I would never have dropped you, either."

"Yeah, I know," he replied. "You just let the hoverbar drop me."

"You dropped yourself," she reminded him. "But I'll be nice, from now on. I'll even bring you lunch, so you won't need to stagger to the replicator, again. "

"Absolutely not. You tried feeding me cow balls."

She stared at him, amused. "In my experience, cows don't have balls. Bulls have balls. I thought you knew that."

His face flushed. _Of course cows don't have balls,_ he thought, humiliated. "Cattle balls. Bull balls. I don't worry about balls that don't belong to me."

"Actually, I believe the correct term is 'steer'," Tasha said. "The patriarch at St. Mary's grew up on a farm and he told me all about this. Before their balls are cut off, they're bulls. Once they're castrated, they're steers."

"You're just a fountain of information, today. Why the hell would anyone emasculate anything?"

"They only emasculated the weaker ones, so the stronger ones would pass on stronger genes."

"Great," Will muttered. "So, you were an unwitting participant in the bovine Eugenics Wars. You're eating a slow-learner's would-be progeny."

She shrugged. "That's one way to look at it."

"I didn't want to look at it."

"Well, we were both the unwitting products of a temporary, 21st century education, which in my case, included some verbal lessons about animal husbandry."

"So, what did I study while I was there?"

"The art of wooing women, and talking anyone into buying the most expensive bottles of wine that Nichols Jazz offered."

He finally cracked a smile. "I did do that rather well," he said. "You want to come in for a bit?"

"Sure, thanks," she replied, walking into his cabin behind him, and trying not to be shocked at the 10-degree centigrade temperature difference between his frigid cabin and the corridor air, which was tolerable to Tasha, though she still preferred it warmer. "I've been meaning to chat with you about something, anyway, before you got blown up on Sora."

"This isn't about Deanna, is it?" he asked, wary.

"No," she replied, smiling. "But, I will say, you have left quite a few wooed women in your wake, Will."

"You think you're being funny with the alliteration," he said, looking at her right in the eye, and almost instantly, she got it. One of those women had given birth to a baby girl nine months after Will's wooing had occurred. She'd listed his alias, William Riggs, on the birth certificate, barely three months after

She looked him in the eye. "Sorry," she said, almost whispering. "I didn't mean to include Stephanie and your daughter in that group."

"You want to see a picture of her?"

"Of your daughter?"

"Yeah," he said. "Deanna found three of images."

Will tossed her a small blanket that he kept tossed over his couch for visitors, and accessed the photo on his desktop viewscreen while she sat beside him on the couch. "Here, that's Stephanie, and this is Sarah," he said. "Here's another one just of Sarah. I think it's a school photo."

Those piercing, blue eyes smiling from Sarah's school picture, taken in 2019, were unmistakable. "She looks a lot like her mom, but she definitely has your eyes," Tasha remarked.

"Probably my height, too," Will remarked. "Look at this, she's only 10, and already she's shoulder-height on her mom."

"How tall was Stephanie?"

"Shorter than you, taller than Deanna."

Tasha nodded. She was about to ask, but he beat her to it.

"I still don't know how Sarah died," he said. "Sometime in 2020, so she would have been 11. She died the same day as her mother. Don't know the cause, whether it was an accident or the first riots that broke out around then, or what. Oh, speaking of the past, I chatted with Gary Tobin, today on subspace."

Tasha ignored the abrupt subject change. "Really? What's he up to?"

"The family's still in Seattle, doing all right, looking to be posted to the Midwest someplace but the orders haven't come through. They'd love to be closer to his parents in Missouri. I guess they visited so the girls got to meet their grandparents, finally. He's bartending on the base and they've both been filling in as a guest lecturers at a secondary school."

"How're the girls doing through all this?"

"So far, so good," Will said. "Chaney had some issues catching up at school, but she's with her age-group so I guess she's doing all right. Piper's young enough that she didn't seem to have any issues, but she misses her old school."

Tasha smiled. "At least they both could read and knew about basic math before they came back," she said. "That makes it easier. And they're young enough they'll be fine."

"Their parents came back," Will reminded her. "The girls were born in the 21st century."

"So how will they handle birthdates, and all that?"

"The same way they've handled ours," he replied. "Age-wise, we're two years older than our actual dates of birth would have

"So, you couldn't read when you first came to Earth?"

She shook her head. "Nope," she said. "My brother could read. He was in school when the revolt happened. and everything on Turkana was in Ukrainian so it's a different alphabet. But I was so little that I hadn't learned to read, yet, and by the time Turkana was nuked, it didn't matter, anymore. Where I'm from, people didn't read books. They ate them."

"Didn't you say you had pictures of your family?" Will said. "That your foster parents had given you some pictures?"

"Yeah, I have them in my cabin. Next time you're over I'll show them to you," she replied. "Thanks for showing me Sarah's pictures."

"Thanks for kicking my ass, yesterday."

"Anytime."

"So, is that what little sisters are supposed to do? Give their older brothers a hard time?" Will asked, referencing something he'd said the day they came back to the 21st century. They'd been standing at a bus stop in Kansas City, waiting for their ride to Gary and Kim Tobin's house, where the rest of the Away Team was beaming up to return to the 24th century. Will and Tasha had spent the past 20 months living through a rollercoaster of human relations, evolving into the close friends they ultimately became. As they waited for their bus, he'd told her she'd become "like the little sister I never had until we wound up here". He meant it, and she'd felt the same about him.

She nodded. "Most of the time, yes," she said, allowing herself to smile, finally. "Little sisters are supposed to bug their big brothers, and big brothers are supposed to protect their little sisters."

"Speaking of that, just so you know, Logan's going to be at this poker game, so be prepared to wear another scant uniform if you make any bad bids. He likes you, you know."

"He can keep on dreaming."

"He is dreaming," Will said.

"I lost a bet to him, once," she said after a few seconds, struggling to segue into something vaguely related without deviating too far. "I haven't played poker since.

He nodded. "I remember that," he replied. She'd worn a minidress for an entire shift on the bridge, just after their Farpoint Station mission. "I take it that was Logan's idea."

"I should have folded," she remarked, remembering a late-night poker game that she'd been too stubborn to give up, even when it was evident that the chief engineer had every good card in the deck. He remembered seeing her dash from the lift at 0655 that morning, and practically hide behind the tactical console. "He should have known better."

"He thought he was being funny," she replied. "Everyone in Engineering calls him Chuckles because he cracks himself up. I think he's just arrogant. But . . . whatever."

"I'm surprised Deanna didn't catch on and say something to you," he remarked.

Tasha looked away at the far wall again, then back at him. "Oh, she did," Tasha replied. "She pulled me aside so we could chat about it. I think you were in Picard's ready room. And I told her that I was embarrassed about losing this bet, and that I would never play poker against Logan again, and that I wasn't looking forward to spending the entire shift in a breezy uniform. I'm just glad I didn't drop anything. I did my time and then laughed it off."

"And she didn't say anything else?"

"We came across the _Tsiolkovsky _the next day," Tasha remarked. "And that turned into a gigantic, charlie foxtrot. . ."

"A what?"

"United States militaryese for clusterfuck," she continued. "And that was the least of what it was. The whole ship behaving like that. . .and I knew better, but I did it, anyway. . ."

"You were infected," he said, remitting 'charlie foxtrot' and 'clusterfuck' to memory. _She got one hell of a linguistic education in addition to acquiring the WORST music in the history of the universe,_ he thought. "We all were. When are you going to ease up on yourself?"

"Why didn't you become a counselor?"

He laughed. "Being a first officer is a lot like being a counselor and a babysitter," he said. "I dated a counselor."

"Bridge to Lt. Yar," Worf rang through on her combadge.

"Go ahead, Worf," she replied.

"Commander T'Pil requests your assistance in his cabin," Worf radioed across her combadge. "His young son has locked himself into a closet, changed the security code, and now refuses to emerge."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, duty calls," she said. "Enjoy your downtime."

"What were you needing to tell me, again?"

Her brow furrowed, then she remembered: The advanced field medical training, and she was still undecided. "Oh, it's . . . not important. We can chat about it, later."

"All right," he nodded. he knew he could keep pressing her, but she'd still be evasive until she was ready to discuss whatever it was. "You know where I'll be."

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, Ten Forward, 1240 hours**

Deanna had asked Tasha to have lunch with her in Ten Forward, that day. Getting the child out of the closet had taken longer than expected: He hadn't just overridden the computer codes, but had also jammed a small toy into the slot at the base of the door. It was designed for power failures or malfunctions when doors might need to be propped open. But this kid figured out that the opposite also was possible, and he effectively barricaded himself inside by waiting to insert that toy into the slot until the door was completely shut. He'd wigged it around and blocked the door from sliding open.

"You need to tell Will about this," Deanna pressed. She could sense that Tasha wanted to just sit down with Will and chat, like they always did. She'd started to do that, but was called away to deal with the kid in the closet. Since she'd left his cabin, she'd been thinking about the topic she'd meant to discuss, but hadn't.

"I'd always believed that cracking heads was the only thing I was good at," she said. "And now I'm interested in learning how to fix those cracked heads."

"You mean, learning more about counseling?"

"No," she said, smiling. "No, learning about medicine."

"Well, you had me going there," Deanna replied. "Counselors fix cracked heads, too."

"I wanted to say something to him, but he's got so much going on with his recovery, I just didn't want to burden him with this."

"He'd welcome it," Deanna said. "You are friends, after all."

Counselor Troi was correct about Tasha and Will being close friends, but something wasn't right. "You're keeping something from me, too," Tasha said. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"You and Will went through something uniquely bonding," she replied. "When the rescue party first arrived on Earth and I sensed a closeness between you two. It's the type of emotional bond that is similar between a married couple, or close siblings, or members of a small, military regiment on special assignment for several years. And at first, I thought you were romantically involved. There were flashes of affection between you during our time there. But the emotions I sensed predominately were excitement about returning, and nervousness about how this would impact your friendship."

Tasha nodded. "There was that, yes," she remarked, then her expression softened as she realized what Deanna was getting at. "You were envious."

"Yes, I was," Deanna replied. "And I still am, to some degree. I admit there have been times since, when I wish it had been me stranded with him, instead."

Tasha sighed. "Why didn't you say something? On Earth, or here?"

"Wishful thinking," she said, and Tasha smiled.

"That pleases you?"

"I'm smiling because if it had been you stranded in Earth's past with Will Riker, you both would have still been there," Tasha said. "You'd have settled down, somewhere. He wouldn't have had a reason to come back. He still loves you. He's never stopped."

"He has an interesting way of showing that, with all the women he's been with," Deanna remarked.

"They're stand-ins," she replied.

"He had a child with one of them and apparently didn't know about it until he returned," Deanna added.

Tasha nodded. "Yeah, he told me about it."

Deanna looked straight into Tasha's eyes, and nodded in response. "I know."

"You know, what? What's wrong?"

"This is pure selfishness on my part, having nothing to do with you," Deanna remarked, then shook her head again. "Well, it does have to do with you. I'd always imagined that the relationship Will and I had would have strengthened again, to the point where we could tell each other anything. If something was troubling one of us, we could always come to each other. And when I learned that he'd told you, first, about having a daughter he never knew, I was troubled by that."

"He drug his feet for days," Tasha said. "He didn't want to hurt you. He knew you'd be disappointed and sad and hurt."

"So, he told you, first,"

"Yes, he did," Tasha said. "He'd just learned about it. I got the feeling that he didn't want to hear anything from anyone else. He just wanted someone who would understand to listen. and I think that was the first night back aboard the _Enterprise_, too. We were used to chatting on Earth. We'd talk every evening."

"Pillow talk," Deanna quipped.

"Well, from different beds with different pillows," Tasha replied.

"With the exception of one night when I was aboard the shuttle," Deanna remarked. "I beamed down, you beamed up, and when I went into the bathroom to have a shower, I found that one bed had been slept in, and the other one had not. . ."

Tasha's brow furrowed, and Deanna could sense that she initially didn't recall that night, but then recognition flashed across her face.

"Oh, yeah," she said after a few seconds. "What did Will say about it?"

"Not much at all," Deanna said. "And I only sensed it had more to do with comfort than with passion."

Tasha looked down. "It did,"

"How so?"

_You really want to know all the details,_ Tasha thought. _You already know about my nightmares._

"You had a nightmare," Deanna sensed the thought, but erroneously connected it to what had happened that night.

"I have nightmares all the time," Tasha said. "This wasn't a nightmare. It was something that happened that reminded me of when I was younger, and Will came home earlier than I thought he would, and he saw how upset I was. And I tried getting him to back off my saying I didn't want to discuss it. I figured he'd leave me alone to calm down on my own."

"But he didn't," Deanna said.

Tasha shook her head. "I had crawled into my bed. I was so tired, and I just wanted to sleep and for that day to just end. Will brought me a blanket, then he lay down next to me, pulled me back against him and just held me, just listened. And we fell asleep like that, and I actually slept. He learned about his daughter just after we came back aboard the _Enterprise_, and he called to tell me. He just wanted someone to listen."

"You both lost friends when you returned to this century," Deanna said, visibly moved. "It's a different type of loss, and you understood that."

Tasha nodded. "It is very different," she said. "He didn't want to tell you, at first, and I told him he needed to. I don't think it had anything to do with honesty or not wanting you to know. I think he was just hoping you'd get back together and that this news would threaten that."

"He was afraid I'd push him away," Deanna said, sighing. "But we've talked about this, before, and I don't think I'm ready for a commitment like that."

"Now that I think about it, he's probably not ready, either," Tasha said, shaking her head. "You know who he's eyeing as stand-in material these days?"

Deanna stared at her, genuinely interested—and not from a competition standpoint, but from the venue of an amused player who's taken a pit-stop from the action, and now is observing the cutthroat competition with some degree of relief to be out of it. "Who is it?"

"She's a lieutenant commander in the bioengineering lab," Tasha paused, struggling to recall the name, though her physical attributes were hard to forget. "Tall, witty, waist-length, reddish-blonde hair, big boobs. . . you know, the worst nightmare for all the mortal women on this ship."

Despite herself, a smile broke through Deanna's pensive expression, and then across Tasha's as they looked at each other, and began laughing.

"Some things just don't change," Deanna said.

* * *

**Will Riker's cabin, 2115 hours**

It didn't take long for Tasha to be reminded of why she didn't like poker. Despite every attempt, others at the table could read her like a book. She had nothing she could play.

She didn't worry about Data's "human reading" abilities as much as she knew he'd whip her with his strategy. Will, she knew, probably could tell exactly which cards she was holding—and his poker face was well-practiced enough that no one really knew what he was looking at. Will was superlative at playing poker, even refusing to reorganize the cards he held to throw people off. Geordi LaForge had the distinct advantage of being able to hide his eyes from everyone, even his expressions told everyone that he'd been dealt a lousy hand. Logan had a great hand. He announced it as soon as he finished rearranging his cards. That was his game plan, to psych people out, even if he wound up having nothing.

Beverly Crusher folded early, before the bets got too big. Tasha could feel Logan leering at her from across the table, and suspected he wasn't just trying to guess which cards she held. He was looking at her chest, and now she was uncomfortable, not just cold. Out of deference to others playing, Will had increased the temperature of his normally frigid cabin. But as soon as she caught Logan ogling her, Tasha hopped up from the table and raided one of the blankets draped across Will's couch. Already warmer the instant it was draped around her shoulders, she returned to her place at the table.

"Am I turning you on, Lieutenant?" Logan smiled.

She stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Just saying," he remarked.

Beverly Crusher felt her eyes widening.

"Come on, this isn't the Dating Game," Will interjected, trying to refocus on what he'd bid while wondering what Tasha was going to fire back in Logan's direction. _That was really insensitive, even for Logan,_ he thought.

"Where's Counselor Troi?" Tasha asked, desperate for a subject change and hoping Deanna would be here. She always seemed to know to gently disarm a smarmy fellow like Logan. Tasha was very comfortable with verbal and physical confrontations, but the sticky scene of negotiating small talk was not her thing, and already Logan was making her squirm. _Maybe Deanna's just running late,_ Tasha thought.

"She called about 10 minutes ago, said probably not," Will replied. "A couple of crewmembers requested her assistance. She probably won't be playing."

"Sounds mildly serious," Beverly remarked.

"Uh, well," Will stammered. "Personal personnel issues."

"Yeah, they're getting a divorce," Logan announced.

Everyone stared at him.

"Frykowski and Ellis," he continued—not that anyone was listening. Geordi was especially put-off, because one of those officers worked with him in engineering. Everyone knew the couple was having issues, but Frykowski was loathe to air his personal issues on duty. It wasn't anyone's business, and Geordi had honored those wishes. Logan obviously had not, and seemed to enjoy adding the last bit of salacious gossip.

"Yeah, she's seeing someone else," he said. "Got caught in their cabin together."

"Sorry to hear that," Beverly said, wondering how long it would be until Logan showed up in sickbay with someone's uniform boot imbedded in the back of his throat. It wasn't long until Logan hacked Tasha off so much that she started taking stupid chances and making bad bids in an effort to beat him. He'd known she'd do that, and before she knew it, she'd lost her chips and her pride—and had to agree to wear the scant uniform, again, for one whole shift, tomorrow.

"I don't care if it means I'm a bad loser," she remarked to Will after everyone else had left. "I'm NOT wearing that thing again."

"A bet is a bet, Tash," he reminded her as she was leaving his cabin.

"I didn't make the bet!" she argued. "He made that bet about the scant.. All I could do was put my cards down."

"Look, it's just a shift," he said. "We aren't in combat. You can heat the deck at tactical so your legs won't get too cold."

She shook her head. "Worf gets too hot," she said.

"Do me a favor and just suck it up," Will said. "One day. It's my first shift back and I don't want any drama."

She nodded. "One day," she agreed.

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, the next day on the bridge, 0830 hours**

From the start of the shift, Tasha was very uncomfortable wearing the scant uniform, a minidress that she felt impossible to work in. and Will picks up that it's far more than just that "breezy" feeling. WIll glanced back every once in a while, mostly for a tactical update. She was there at her post, just like she was supposed to be.

Every once in a while, a giggle would emerge from some bridge officer, usually after she left the bridge to attend to other security issues on the ship.

"This couldn't have been her idea," Deanna remarked, sitting on her seat at bridge command. She'd just passed Tasha in the corridor enroute to the bridge with her counselor's pad. Tasha had been taking smaller-than-normal steps in the minidress, and had tugged down its hem at least twice in Deanna's presence.

"It wasn't," he confirmed, signing with some regret the chain-of-command permission to advance another matter to Captain Picard's attention. He was in his ready room, and this needed his eyes only. Only clergy or a starship captain could perform a marriage ceremony or approve a divorce. In this case, it was the latter. "Sorry they couldn't work this out."

"It's for the best," she remarked.

"Are they nights or days?"

"Nights," she replied. "I recommended one shift off per officer—and not that the same time—so belongings could be cleared out of the cabin."

"Who's moving?"

"Frykowski," she replied.

"Are you still able to come to lunch with us? Senior staff is meeting in Ten Forward at 1215 hours."

"Absolutely," she replied. "I'm being lured further by that Belgian chocolate dessert they just introduced."

_USS __Enterprise_, in the corridor just outside Ten Forward, 1310 hours

Tasha didn't show up at the lunch, choosing instead to retreat to her cabin, where she didn't need to walk through a crowd of people, or figure out how to tactfully sit in a minidress. Her entire day had felt tense and pressured, and she swore at least 400 times throughout the morning that she would NEVER play poker with Logan again.

Will suspected why she wasn't there, and when he confronted Logan about it, Logan accused him of being jealous. _She's got great legs, I figured that you, of all people, could appreciate that,_ Logan said. And as suddenly, Will's transformation into a protective, big brother was complete. Will was being protective of her. He wasn't about to blab her business. But he was not going to allow a fellow officer to embarrass her or remind her of something that wasn't anyone else's business.

"So, what's her hang-up?" Logan asked. "Is she seeing someone else, or seeing you, or gay, or what?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Will shot back, not even attempting to hide his irritation. "How is that even relevant?"

"It's relevant to me. I wish she'd give me a chance."

_Only in her nightmares, and she has plenty of those, already,_ Will thought. "I can speak definitively when I tell you that she's NOT interested in you," he said. "She's not interested in any man who would humiliate her in this manner."

"Did _she_ tell you that?"

"Yes, she did. Several times."

Logan didn't believe it. "On what occasions?"

"You backing her into a corner certainly didn't help."

"She made a bad bid!" Logan exclaimed. "She knew what she was getting into when she stacked bets against me. This is her own doing. She asked for it!"

Will flashed back to the stories Tasha had told him about her life on Turkana, where she'd been forced into child prostitution. She hadn't gone into gritty details, and hadn't needed to. Her repeated nightmares told him plenty, even if she refused to describe what specifically made her wake drenched with sweat and involuntary tears. It had taken months for him to pry that information out of her, and he never asked her again. She'd had enough forced on her already, and she didn't need to be forced to discuss something. Will wasn't a counselor, but he'd often wondered about how effective "talk therapy" was with someone who didn't want to discuss something.

In Tasha's case, it wasn't just the horror of it, nor even the shame. She was also concerned about not being understood, and about having her experiences summarized and mislabeled into a collection of happenstances. Will understood enough to know when to back off, and when to simply listen without interrupting her (as counselors often did). Will didn't care for the counseling practice of "coaxing" people to delve further by guessing at what was on their minds. Patients who had relatively simple problems were helped easily with this tactic. Tasha Yar was not one of those people.

Her discomfort today had little to do with how she felt physically. It had everything to do with how she feared others would regard her, dressed in the scant uniform that people wore when they were comfortable showing so much skin. It was a uniform option, certainly not a requirement. She didn't want anyone looking at her that way, leering at her the way men had done on Turkana, where her very life depended on how much 'business' she could attract.

_I hated that,_ she'd told him one night while they were chatting on Earth. _On Turkana, they had us wearing really revealing things._ He'd teased her that evening about never wearing low-cut shirts. Even the workout clothes she chose were relatively loose-fitting. She'd seemed horrified at the idea of deliberately dressing in a potentially seductive manner for complete strangers. _I don't ever want anyone else looking at me like that. I'd rather be invisible, _she'd said_. I don't want people leering at me. It's humiliating. It makes me think about things I'd rather not think about._

And suddenly, Will got it. There was more to her "look" than just convenience. Even aboard the _Enterprise_, he never saw her wearing anything but Starfleet-issue, unisex clothing. Until they'd been stranded on Earth, he'd only known her to have a short hairstyle that was more butch that tomboyish. She'd let it grow to chin-length on Earth, then had it cut short again after they returned to the 24th century—but this time, it was softer, a little longer, not as severe but still convenient. _She was just throwing people off,_ he thought. _She prefers nondescript dressing that doesn't draw attention, so she can be anonymous. She doesn't want to take the chance that people might get the wrong idea._

Logan's borderline sexual harassment wasn't helping, and suddenly Will was right in Logan's face, right there in the corridor. He didn't care who else saw the confrontation, and knew from personnel reports that plenty of other crewmembers—Geordi among them—had sparred with Logan about many issues. This time, Will was so infuriated that he felt his face flushing, knew that arteries were popping out across his temples.

"If I thought you truly understood the magnitude of what you just said, I'd have you brought up on harassment charges," he said. "How dare you regard her or anyone on this ship like that. This bullshit is finished, right now."

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, main corridors on C deck, 1315 hours**

"Bridge to Lt. Yar," Worf's voice came over her combadge. She tapped it gently.

"Yes, Worf, go ahead," she replied, pausing in the corridor with her back to the wall. She unconsciously tugged at her skirt's hem again. Officers were passing her in the hallway and she caught at least one lieutenant's eyes moving sideways as he passed.

"Commander Riker requests your presence in Shuttlebay Four for a security update."

"Thanks, Worf," she said. "Heading that way."

She turned around, intending to go to the least occupied of the lifts to the shuttle deck, and ran right into Senior Ensign Saul Minnerly, one of her most trusted security officers. If Will Riker was most like her older brother, he was like her little brother. He took nothing from anyone but listened to everything Tasha said. And independently, he wasn't particularly fond of Chief Engineer Logan, either.

"Hi, Saul," she said, flushing self-consciously. Her bare legs were covered with goosebumps, and not just because she was cold. She hated this.

"Time until your scant sentence is over, lieutenant?" he asked.

"It was a bad bid on my part," she replied. "Six hours to go."

"Bad taste on his," Minnerly replied.

Even walking alongside Minnerly there in the crowded corridors, Tasha felt everyone was staring at her. She was horribly self-conscious. She took leave of Minnerly, ducked into the lift, then gingerly stepped off of it once it arrived at the shuttle deck. She glanced in both directions, tugging downward on her skirt hem as she stepped off the lift.

The shuttlebay appeared to be deserted.

"Commander? Anyone here?" she called out.

"Hey, Tash," Will's voice was nearly a whisper, but she whirled around, immediately recognizing him. He had been standing in the dark, by himself, hiding in the alcove just to the right of the shuttlebay door.

"Hey," she replied, not looking up, tugging again at the hem of the skirt.

"You're off the hook," he said, holding something out toward her. In the darkness, she nearly couldn't tell what he was holding. But as her fingers clasped around it, she knew: It was a standard, security chief's uniform.

"Thank you," she whispered back, looking down at the uniform, her vision suddenly blurred with tears of humiliation she'd been holding back all day. Relieved and moved at the same time that Will understood why she was so uncomfortable, she was unable to keep them from finally springing to her eyes. She had no idea what else to say. He was bailing her out.

"That's what big brothers are supposed to do," he said.

She nodded again.

"Logan was out of line," Will said. "And after I told him that, I realized I was talking to a hard-up brick wall. And it made me wonder how many times he's had his ass kicked over the years. You know he signed up for the martial arts competition, didn't you?"

A smile broke through her face, and she glanced up.

"So, are you going to do something about that?" he pressed.

"Probably," she replied.

"That's great," he said. "Because if you don't, I will."

"Thank you," she replied. "And I really need to learn to play poker."

"That's—yeah, you do," he replied, laughing softly. "Go change, before you freeze."


	10. Chapter 10

_Spoilers for "Heart of Glory"_

* * *

**Future's Present, Chapter 10**

* * *

**Aboard the **_**USS Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41503.6, 1930 hours**

As much as Natasha Yar's cat enjoyed his new, humming home and adored the human who brought him to live there, it didn't take him long to become curious about What Lay Beyond the doors that slid open several times a day. KC had figured out that the sliding doors opened for her, but not for him.

So he ruminated on exploration, and just after Lt. Yar returned home one evening and was distracted by her usual routine of suiting up for a martial arts workout, KC made his move. The doors opened for Tasha as she exited her cabin. When she turned to the left, KC dashed to the right.

His timing was impeccable for another reason. Minutes earlier, several birds escaped from the _Enterprise_'s arboretum. KC saw one of them fluttering through the corridor and immediately gave chase until several officers—Lt. Worf among them—were notified that the birds had escaped from the arboretum. Worf hadn't expected to find Lt. Yar's cat stalking at least one of those birds. He recognized that an 8-kilo feline predator was a greater threat and nabbed KC. Worf carried the irked cat toward Lt. Yar's cabin, planning a security override to open the door so he could dump the cat inside and be done with it.

He didn't realize that another of the escaped birds saw the now-opened cabin as an inviting refuge from the corridor, and it flew into the cabin just before Lt. Worf stepped inside, as well. Worf saw the bird and a very-Klingon growl of irritation emanated from his throat. But when KC heard that growl, he had an instinctive reaction of his own.

* * *

Will Riker and Deanna Troi were returning from dinner in Ten Forward, walking together and laughing. She would be leaving for the first of two conferences the next day. He was trying to cheer her up. As much as she appreciated receiving updates in the psychology field, she disliked being away from the _Enterprise_, because it seemed like something important always happened when she was off the ship.

They were surprised to see Tasha Yar standing in the middle of the corridor, speaking to four of her security detail and the lead officer assigned to the arboretum. She was wearing her aikido garb, and Deanna immediately sensed that Tasha was genuinely unnerved by something.

"What happened?" Will asked.

"A . . . bird flew into my cabin!" she exclaimed, barely catching herself from interjecting a questionable adjective.

"A bird," Will replied, not hiding his amusement. "Is that it? KC ought to like that."

"He's part of the reason the bird is in there," Tasha replied. "This is NOT a good thing. It's really not."

When she explained what had happened, he thought she was overreacting, or being falsely dramatic in an attempt at humor. But Deanna sensed that she was serious.

"This really troubles you," Deanna said. "You feel it's a portent of misfortune."

"Yes!" Tasha replied. "My foster mother was superstitious. She told me that if a bird flies into someone's house, it's very bad luck. It means someone is about to die."

Will rolled his eyes.

"You think I'm kidding!" Tasha remarked.

"You've GOT to be kidding," Will said, his tone teasing. He stepped inside the cabin to see how the capture was going. He saw the first, surprising casualty: Lt. Worf, whose unadorned shoulder had been shredded by KC's frantic attempts to free himself from the Klingon's embrace, leaving multiple punctures and lacerations before Worf held the struggling animal away from him, and unceremoniously deposited him onto the first chair he found in Lt. Yar's cabin.

Bleeding and barely containing his temper, Worf watched the arboretum crew member easily recapture the bird, which had found refuge in an alcove just above the cabin's replicator unit. A handheld force field to safely enveloped the bird for transport.

"This is the second time this one has escaped. He'll need a notification chip," the arboretum worker said. "It'll throw up an additional, chip-specific force field anytime the animal gets within one meter of the internal door."

"He nearly got eaten, you know," Tasha replied, stepping inside but keeping her distance from the bird as it was carried past her and out of the cabin. "KC would have had him for dinner."

"Looks like he had Worf for dinner, instead," Will remarked.

KC sat on the chair, his fur bristling and ears laid back, glaring at Lt. Worf. The Klingon officer was a formidable opponent for anyone, but KC had already figured out how to strike the first blow.

"Your feline did not appreciate being retrieved," Worf said, glancing at his shredded uniform. "I will report to sickbay."

"Thanks, Lt. Worf," Tasha said. "If you ever get a cat, I owe you a retrieval if it escapes."

"I will _not_ be getting a cat," Worf stated emphatically, and left.

* * *

Deanna sat next to KC, but didn't dare touch him. "He's quite agitated," she said. "He's relieved that Lt. Worf is gone."

"And I'd hoped they'd get along," Tasha said, reaching to scoop KC up so she could sit on the chair with him in her lap.

"How was your romp through the ship, you stupid cat?" Will asked, reaching to scratch KC's ears as Tasha held him. "Did you at least get laid while you were out and about?"

Deanna and Tasha glanced at each other.

"No?" Will said to KC, ignoring the reactions of the two officers next to him. "Well, I'll check the feline singles scene, and see if we can hook you up with Miss Right Now. How's that sound?"

"Commander Riker, are you being a bad influence on my cat?" Tasha said. "I think I'll stay in tonight so I can prevent him from running around with you. Computer, resume music."

A surprisingly sedate, sane melody began floating through the cabin.

"I'm looking out for your cat's well-being!" Will continued, and he was only half-kidding. "He got out because he wants a social life. He needs a girlfriend."

"You may NOT fix up my cat unless you plan on adopting one of the kittens."

Deanna laughed outright, and Will turned to look at her. "Oh, now you're taking sides?" he said. "You think it's healthy for a virile male to remain sequestered when there are so many eligible females available?"

"I'm not a cat expert," Deanna replied, holding up her hands. "But the thought of you raising any offspring resulting from a suggested dalliance is exceedingly funny, commander."

He shot her a playful look, then turned toward Tasha "What are you're listening to?"

"Springsteen."

"I'm impressed," he replied. "I didn't know you'd returned to this century with acceptable music. He would've been great to catch in concert ."

"We couldn't have afforded those tickets," Tasha replied.

"By the way, what was that awful song you piped into my cabin?"

"Man Boobs."

"No," he replied, smirking a bit out of embarrassment. "The loud one with all the screaming, the one where you disabled the voice commands so I had to get out of bed on the one morning that I wanted to sleep in. You actually _listen _to that?"

Deanna was biting the insides of her mouth to keep from laughing again, but she was losing.

"No, not really," Tasha replied. "I did a computer search on my library for something loud and obnoxious, just for you. Shaun Conaghan got me so many discs of music...I still haven't listened to all of it, so the computer selected an appropriate wake-up song. But now that I have listened to that song, it would be great stuff to listen to when I'm in the mood to kick someone's teeth out."

"Appropriate?" he said. "I thought the ship was under attack."

"Well, it did get you out of bed," Deanna observed.

Will nodded. "It did. I haven't slept soundly since then."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41503.7, 1845 hours**

Tasha Yar's feet didn't feel as numb as they had less than 10 days ago, the first time she'd ever notified a family member of a line-of-duty death. Ensign Zhuo Liang had been killed in the same IED explosion that nearly took Will Riker's life. Now, two more officers were gone.

Earlier that day, Tasha had given foot chase to an escaped Klingon prisoner, who had later been killed by Worf. But in Korris' wake were two security ensigns, lying dead from disruptor fire.

Their families were notified of those deaths by Starfleet authorities on their respective home worlds. Captain Picard, Will Riker and Lt. Worf were embroiled in a political fracas that resulted from the presence of Klingon criminals aboard the _Enterprise_—even if they'd been aboard due to a rescue. Will, Data and Geordi had nearly died in the rescue of those Klingons from a disabled ship, and the rescued Klingons repayed the gesture by messing with Worf's loyalties, murdering two officers and attempting to blow up the ship rather than be recaptured by the Klingon Empire.

Tasha rode up the lift to the bridge, shuddering at memories of what she felt was her own incompetence throughout the incident. As she and a security team were about to arrest both Klingon prisoners, a 4-year-old human dashed from a lift and into the path of Korris, the leader of the Klingons. He picked up the girl, and Tasha immediately thought he had taken her as a hostage. He ultimately let the child go, and even Worf had scoffed at the idea, almost offended at the idea of any respectable Klingon kidnapping anyone.

Humiliated that she didn't know as much as she thought she had about Klingons, Tasha began doubting herself. That nagging feeling later was cemented when both Klingons broke out of the brig, killing two security ensigns in the process. Tasha had chased Korris through the ship, and found him in Engineering, holding his pieced-together disruptor at the ship's dilithium crystal chamber. She had recommended the tried-and-true tactic of waiting Korris out until he calmed down. Worf scoffed at that idea as well, saying that Korris would destroy the ship as soon as he felt he no longer had an advantage.

Tasha spoke with Worf after the incident, carefully choosing her words. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't appreciate human platitudes and bullshit compliments that other crew members had piled upon him after the mission. His loyalties were pulled tightly throughout the incident, but hadn't flinched from his duties. He was operating as a Starfleet officer who happened to be a Klingon, rather than a Klingon who happened to wear a Starfleet uniform.

She wrote Worf's commendation, even as she replayed the entire episode in her head, her guilt building. The Klingon prisoners might have "died well", as Worf put it, but they had left others dead, also. Preventable mistakes were made, not enough was understood about Klingons that could have been remedied with preparation, prisoner protocol was breached—and now two officers were dead.

"My compliments on your handling of this situation, lieutenant," she had said to Worf, just after arriving on the bridge. While Picard, Riker and Worf were taking leave of the responding Klingon ship that had rendezvoused with the _Enterprise _to take both Klingons into custody, Tasha and two other security officers moved the bodies of Nicholas Ramos and Criston Escobar into stasis.

"I know this was rough for you, and don't tell me it wasn't," Tasha said to Worf.

He stared at her. She'd nailed him to the wall, all right. "It was challenging, lieutenant," he replied.

"You dealt with it well," Tasha said, choosing her words wisely this time. "By resisting their attempts to anger you, you were the one who behaved with honor."

"Thank you, lieutenant."

"I heard you received a posting offer from the Captain aboard the Klingon ship," she said.

"They offered a position aboard their ship once my commission here runs out," he replied. "I respectfully declined."

"Well, I'm glad you're staying," she replied. "And I'm grateful that you'll be around to help teach me—and everyone else aboard this ship—more about Klingon culture. I apologize that I didn't know as much as I should have."

"No apology is necessary," Worf replied. "Klingon culture is richly complicated."

"Would you be interested in hosting a security inservice aboard the ship regarding that? I believe we would all benefit, and not just if we were to assist the Klingons, but for when—and not if—but when there are more Klingons who join Starfleet."

"I would be honored, lieutenant," Worf said, and she noticed he stood a little taller than usual.

"I look forward to it," Tasha said, now smiling even if she still felt as if she were dying inside. She would deliver her final report to Captain Picard in 10 minutes. The report would include an official commendation for Lt. Worf, and she hoped that Picard would consider it. Although she absolved Lt. Worf of any fault in the incident, she found a number of faults with security's handling of the Klingon prisoners in custody.

She aimed the most scathing criticism at herself.

* * *

**Captain's ready room, 1902 hours**

"I agree, lieutenant," Picard said, his eyes glancing up at Tasha, even as he kept his head bowed over the final report from security about the Klingon incident. She stood stiffly at attention in front of his desk. "But before we discuss this further, please, sit down. You are at ease."

She complied, readying herself for the critique.

"I agree with your assessment of how well Worf handled himself in the face of such dichotomy within his own species," Picard said. "I will gladly issue this commendation. However, I cannot accept the final two paragraphs of this report from you, lieutenant. You're being quite harsh on yourself."

"I take full responsibility for their deaths, sir," she said.

"You were hardly at fault, lieutenant," Picard said. "That's an admirable quality, to not place blame on others or point fingers. But it can go too far, and it has in this case."

"Protocol was not followed," she said. "This is a symptom of lax supervision. Had they followed their training, both officers would have been alive, and we could have avoided needless bloodshed aboard the ship."

"And it could have been far worse. More crewmembers could have perished. We all could have perished. This is an unfair reality in starship security. These two officers gave their lives as a warning to us. Had you not heeded that warning, the entire ship could have been destroyed."

Tasha nodded. "Yes, sir," she replied. Still, she felt as if she'd let them down, and let the ship down.

"Aside from Ensign Liang, is this the first time you've lost officers under your command?"

"Yes, sir," she said.

"It's an easy and oddly comforting reaction to blame yourself when one of your troops is injured or killed," he said. "You are a relatively new senior officer, with new management responsibilities. And under these circumstances, it's quite common for new managers to heap any blame upon themselves in an attempt to gain praise for things they've done correctly. However in your case, I believe you are the saying that the 'buck stops here', as it were."

She nodded. "Yes, it does, as far as I'm concerned."

"You know your history well, lieutenant," he nodded. The last time he'd used that phrase toward Chief Engineer Logan, he'd wound up explaining what it meant. "That's not a very common phrase."

"Harry Truman popularized it," she said. "When Commander Riker and I were stranded in the 21st century, we visited the Truman Library near Kansas City built in his honor. It had an impressive display of Cold War artifacts, including one regarding that very phrase. It's outdated today, but still accurate. I don't believe in pointing fingers, either. Two security officers did not follow prisoner protocol, and it resulted in fatalities aboard this ship. I believe that is a tragic symptom of lax supervision on my part, and for that I take full responsibility."

Picard took a deep breath, but didn't deviate his eyes from hers.

"Lieutenant, I made you chief of security because I believe in you," Picard said. "You made me proud of you, the way you chased Korris through this ship. And I can tell you, personally, that I remember the names and faces of all 11 personnel that I lost beneath my first command. I remember packing their belongings. I recall not sleeping for three days because I was so consumed with guilt. I can tell you from experience that self-flagellation does little good in situations like these, even if there were mistakes made."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

"I don't envy what you're to face, later today. But I do understand," he said. "Cleaning out personal belongings is difficult even if you didn't know an officer well. Ensign Escobar had requested burial on Earth, so we will be placing his remains aboard tomorrow's scheduled shuttle, and I have pushed back its departure until after the memorial ceremony. We also will be returning the belongings of both ensigns lost today, as well as Ensign Liang's belongings."

Her brow furrowed. "Ensign Liang's belongings haven't been sent back, yet?"

"The Sora incident occurred just one day after the last crew shuttle departed for Earth. Unless there are remains to return, personal belongings return with scheduled shuttles. Have you selected who will accompany the remains back?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. "Julio Barajas was Escobar's roommate. Coincidentally, Barajas, Escobar and Liang all graduated in the same Academy class and were posted here, together."

"Ensign Barajas is an appropriate choice, lieutenant," he said. "Make it so."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, crew quarters, 2030 hours**

Nicholas Ramos had died at his post, just after alerting the bridge to the initial escape attempt by the Klingons. But he had jumped into the brig's doorway—and right into the line of fire. _That was stupid, Nick! What happened? You knew better than that! _Tasha's thoughts had screamed when she reviewed the security tapes. Ramos was dead before he even hit the floor. The Klingon disruptor attacked nerve pathways, severing autonomic nerve function. Ramos didn't leave behind many personal mementoes, save some digital photos and his tablet. The photos pictured him with an older woman—probably his mother—at his Academy graduation. He had requested space. His belongings would be returned to his mother on Alpha Centauri.

Criston Escobar killed one of the Klingon prisoners, but couldn't dodge the disruptor blast from the remaining Klingon Korris. By the time Lt. Yar reached Escobar only one minute later, his face had already turned blue. She automatically checked his pulse anyway, though she could smell the disruptor blast remnants and knew that he already was beyond help.

Tasha found Escobar's roommate, Julio Barajas, numbly gathering his fallen friend's belongings. Barajas had been part of the rescue team retrieving her and Will Riker from their 21st century timewarp, so she knew him better than most other security ensigns. It didn't surprise her to see him, but it nonetheless had to be difficult for him. Barajas and Escobar had been good friends. Most roommates of fallen officers cleared out, not wanting anything to do with the unpleasant, supervisory task of removing personal effects.

"His family will want his belongings," Barajas said, nodding at the collection of items that he was packing into a Escobar's Starfleet-issue case.

"You don't need to be the one doing that," Tasha said. "That's why I'm here."

"Oh," he replied. "I'm sorry. I thought it was my duty."

"Not at all," she said. "I'm sorry about Escobar. I know you guys were good friends."

"Since our first year at the Academy," Barajas replied. Tasha noticed a digital print of Escobar with a group of people—his family, perhaps. Mother and father, a sister, a brother who looked just like him.

"Did you know his family?" Tasha asked.

He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I've visited his home several times, and he's been to mine twice. Last year before the _Enterprise_ departed Earth, both our families spent time at my family home in Acapulco."

"They were notified several hours ago," she said. "Ensign Escobar had requested that his remains be returned to Earth. The regular shuttle will leave tomorrow with his remains and the belongings of all three officers who have died in the line of duty. I believe in this situation, you should be the one to accompany Criston's remains, and also to deliver the belongings to Ramos' mother on Centauri Station and to Ensign Liang's family on Earth."

Barajas nodded. "Yes," he replied. "I think his family would appreciate that."

"So do I," she said. "I'll arrange for orders. Do you want me to finish packing his belongings? It's all right if you do."

He took a deep breath. "No, I will finish," he replied. Ordinarily, she would have insisted he allow her to complete the task, but could tell that packing was cathartic for him. "I'll return in 15 minutes. The memorial is scheduled at 0800 tomorrow. The shuttle will depart at 0930."

"I will be present," Barajas said.

"My next stop is sickbay," she said. "Do you want me to let Suravi know you'll be leaving?"

He flushed a bit, but nodded. "Yes, thank you," he replied. "I also will speak with her when I'm finished here."

"All right," she said. "I'll be around if you need anything or just need to talk."

He nodded again. "Thank you," he said, then looked up at her and added, "Lieutenant."

"Yeah?"

"Criston and Zhou Liang had been seeing each other since our senior year at the Academy," he said.

She stared at him, then put her hand on the doorframe. It was everything she could do to not allow her mouth to fall open as she replied, "Oh my God," she said, softly. "I hadn't known that. Why didn't he say anything? I could have adjusted his duty schedule after she was killed."

"They were keeping it a secret," he said. "He was about to ask her to marry him. Time slipped away for both of them, I guess."

Tasha had no idea what to say. Her mind was screaming at her that she should have known about Criston Escobar and Zhuo Liang, who had died within 10 days of each other. _If I'd known, would it have made a difference in how Escobar responded today? Was his performance today linked to his emotional state? Why didn't I know them better?_

* * *

**Next day on the bridge, 1500 hours**

Tasha was uncharacteristically quiet as she stood at the Tactical station after the memorial service that morning. From his First Officer's post, Will could hear her fingers tapping the console, but the pattern was different, almost as if she was keeping time to a tune playing in her head. _Uh oh,_ Will thought. _She only does that when she's trying to shut out other thoughts. Wonder what she's been listening to. I hope she's not having nightmares, again._

But she looked tired. He could tell with one glance that she hadn't slept. He had lived with her for more than 20 months when they were stranded in the past, and was very familiar with the nightmares that plagued her about her mother, about a fire-engulfed church bearing many members of her family, about what had happened to her in the years before she could escape from Turkana. She had many nightmares about her brother, mostly where she was looking for him but unable to find him.

Will hadn't thought much about Tasha Yar in the past 24 hours. He'd had been so busy dealing with the aftereffects of their Klingon visitors that he'd not spoken with her since the incident ended.

But he didn't need to speak with her to tell she was tired, and that she was relatively fried. She was present for the daily 0700 briefing, looking bleary-eyed. She advised Picard that a shuttle bearing the remains of one of the three fallen security officers would be sent back to their families with full honors at 0930 hours. Ensign Julio Barajas would accompany them, and would return personal belongings, as well, to the families of all three officers.

After the memorial ceremony, Tasha helped with seeing off the shuttle, had turned away as Julio Barajas and Suravi Bhat shared a departure kiss. Then he boarded the shuttle with four others also aboard for various reasons. After the shuttle was safely away, Tasha went straight to Ten Forward and ordered up something she hadn't had since arriving back on the _Enterprise_: A stiff cup of coffee that got her through the remainder of her shift.

* * *

**Senior staff conference room, 1615 hours**

Tasha was getting frustrated, because she really didn't need this minor, design-flaw-related irritation. She had 29 personnel holograms to return to the storage drawer located within the senior staff conference room. Most information aboard the _Enterprise_ was located on a central computer system. But personnel files always were kept on a holo system of disks, one per officer. Senior staff wishing to review them needed an elaborate password and retinal scan system, and could only use them in that staff room on specially coded computers.

Tasha had pulled all 29 to review them at the same time for upcoming promotions, and now was irked that the disks' slightly curved structure prevented her from returning the whole stack to the drawer. She had retrieved them one at a time, but when she tried to stack them for return, the entire stack slid askew and fell over. This latest attempt had resulted in them shooting all over the floor.

"Well, shit . . ." she muttered, just as the conference room door slid open. Tasha had a knee-jerk panic reaction before she looked up to see who had walked in just as she'd muttered a relatively forbidden expletive.

"Lieutenant," Will said.

"Hello, sir," she replied.

"What happened in here?"

"The usual promotion disk explosion."

Will nodded, then got to the point. "How are _you_ doing?"

"I'm in a holding pattern, sir," she replied honestly.

"That's an interesting way of putting it," he said.

"Captain Picard asked me to handle promotions, and to fill the most recent vacancies of officers who shouldn't have died in the first place," she caught herself saying.

Will sighed.

"Look, three of my security officers have died in the past two weeks," she replied. "One because she didn't detect an IED before it was too late, and the other two because they violated prisoner protocol. The latter two deaths could have been prevented with adequate training and discipline."

"No, Ramos and Escobar died because they were shot by two prisoners—

"—who should have been disarmed before they were put into their cells—," she interrupted, though her voice still was flat.

"But they weren't, and that WAS a protocol violation, and I think I can guarantee that no other security officer aboard this ship will ever do anything like that, again," Riker interjected, a bit more forcefully than he'd planned. Even if he made her angry, at least that would break through the thick veneer she'd laid across herself. "And really, how could we have known that they'd bring—,"

"Klingon officers?" she finally looked at him, her voice intense. Her eyes were piercing, but her words cut through to her own core. "They _should_ have been scanned, but they weren't. They _should_ have had their weapon belts removed, but they weren't removed. Picard is right. That shows overconfidence from security officers who need to be vigilant and a lack of discipline within that force. I don't care what they did on their previous ships before they were posted here, but they knew what I expected from prisoner detail and _they still didn't do it!_ Ramos rated well enough on the range that he should have been able to get a shot from around the corner, but he still left his cover position, and you saw what happened. Complacency is written all over this incident!"

"So, deal with it!" Riker said, almost shouting, right in her face. "You're superlative at dealing with complacency. Ramos and Escobar died because they were shot by two renegade murderers while they were doing their jobs. Liang is dead because she tripped an IED while she was on point for the away team, and she took all the shrapnel that would have wound up hitting me. She was doing her job, but don't think for a second that I haven't been living with that. I received a very nice, personal message from her mother, this morning. She was gracious and thankful, and expressed sincere wishes for my speedy recovery, which was very humbling considering that her daughter gave her life to save mine. The pain in that mother's face hurt me more than the shrapnel that did hit me."

She rested her elbows atop one of the back of a conference chair, and seemingly stared out the window.

"What's all this training for, if only to get smoked on an away mission?" she muttered.

"It could happen to any of us," Will replied. "It could easily have been me walking in front—,"

She shot him a reproachful look.

"And that's why I wasn't!" Will said. Tasha still wasn't looking at him, even if he was right beside her, with his hand on the back of he adjacent chair. "I knew how particular you are about that regulation, that you didn't want any senior staff member taking point, no matter what, so I swallowed my pride and did as you've always told us to do. Listening to you saved my life. So I completely get that you're steeling yourself against your losses, but you've got to be grateful for all the people who were saved by those sacrifices. And those people just happen to include _everyone on this ship_."

"We are not expendable!" Tasha exclaimed, then caught herself. "Surely, security officers weren't just put here to fill spaces in stasis and get our cooked-down ashes shot out the back airlock."

Tasha's fingers were gripping the top of the chair back so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

"You're here to protect us from our enemies, and from ourselves," he said. "And since it's in your nature to think of others first, I need to remind you that you haven't slept."

She glanced at his reflection in the window. "How'd you know that?"

"I lived with you for too long," he replied. "I can tell by looking at you. I don't need to be sleeping in the same room with you anymore to know that you were up all night thinking too much. You need to sleep."

"Captain Picard wants recommendations for staffing," she replied. _People hand-picked, by me, to die under my command,_ she thought, and abruptly wished the thought hadn't crossed her mind. It was too upsetting. _Three people._ "I told him I'd have them by 1900."

"I know he did," he said. "He wanted me to help you make those selections so you can get some well-needed rest."

She didn't budge, didn't even make any acknowledgement that she heard what he'd just said.

"I wish you'd at least look at me," Will finally said, breaking a seconds-long silence. He got a quick glance in response from her, and understood she'd thrown up every reserve she had. The last thing she wanted to do was lose her composure.

"I don't blame you for being pissed off about everything that happened," he said. "But you can't keep beating yourself up about it."

"Pissed off," Tasha muttered. "There's a phrase I haven't heard or used in a while."

"A linguistic souvenir," he replied. "I could drop a few f-bombs, if you'd like me to be more descriptive about the degree of horrible these past 11 days have been."

"I know worse words to describe these days, sir," she replied.

"So I figured," he said, a slight grin spreading across his face. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

"Not with that, I wouldn't," she said. Natasha Yar's library of xenolinguistic curses was far more advanced than Will Riker's. She had learned 21st century zingers that left him shaking his head.

"Not with anything," he said. "Stop second-guessing yourself. Everyone on this ship has faith in you. Managing people is all about leading people, keeping them on track, and not losing faith in your ability to do that when things go wrong. You need to regain that faith in yourself. And then you need to debrief your troops tomorrow and reinforce what's expected of them."

As she nodded in response, her stomach growled.

"Forget sleeping," he said. "When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

"I don't remember," she replied.

"Today, yesterday?"

"Yesterday, I think."

"Must have been a forgettable meal," he said.

"It was," she replied. "No taste, at all. I miss your cooking."

"I miss cooking for you," he said. Will knew Tasha had clamped her feelings down already, and that she'd let them turn into something else. They would drive her forward, foster her intensity, and occasionally get the best of her. He would call her on it, and then they'd move on, knowing they had each other's backs, no matter what.

"You gonna be OK?" he asked

She nodded. "Yeah, I've just . . .had a hiccup, you know?"

He understood immediately. "Yeah, I know," he replied. "My own near-death experience did a number on me, too."

* * *

The conference room door slid open suddenly, startling both officers slightly. Captain Picard strode into the room, his expression somber, looking directly at Tasha.

"Lieutenant, I have some bad news," he said. "Sit down."

Tasha sank into the nearest conference chair. Will sat beside her. Picard pulled up a chair across the table, though his expression bore some measure of sadness and compassion.

"I just received a death notification for Earth, from the Ukraine," Picard began, his tone gentle but no-nonsense. There was no easy way to give anyone news like this. "Your foster mother has lost her battle with her long illness."

Tasha felt her breath catching in her throat, but forced calm over her face as she nodded, then looked at the shiny conference table, seemingly focused on its reflections. "It was expected," she said, then shook her head and sighed. "But still . . ."

"Still," Picard continued. "I am sorry about your loss. The news was delayed 2 days in subspace. Her husband apparently had already held the memorial service. It would have happened yesterday."

"She had already made those arrangements," Tasha said. "She didn't want a big fuss made over her. Were her husband and children there?"

"Her husband was," Picard said. "He would appreciate hearing from you."

Tasha nodded again. This also was customary, that crewmembers aboard any starship have an opportunity to speak with their families for around 10 minutes in the event of a family emergency. The Ilienkos were not her family, but rather had fostered Natasha Yar when she first arrived on Earth at age 15 after escaping from Turkana. Nonetheless, Picard was granting the transmission, and for that, Tasha was thankful.

* * *

Picard told her not to worry about promotions until tomorrow, and also offered Tasha the rest of the shift off, but her stubborn pride prevented that. She did grab a bite to eat—albeit quickly—and insisted on returning to the bridge. When she returned, she was peppered with sympathy wishes from other crewmembers, which was understandable and expected, and she appreciated the sentiments.

But she wasn't prepared for what some of them also said: _Why are you still on duty? Why aren't you taking the rest of the shift off?_ That made no sense to her, at all. She saw no reason to remove herself from duty and thought it was rude for anyone to question her decision. Olena Ilienko had died two days earlier. Her funeral already had been held. The scheduled transmission between her and Rustam Ilienko wasn't until 1945 hours. The implication that she didn't care was more upsetting than anything, and soon she was snapping at people who pressed the issue.

"You should take off early," Will had suggested. He'd caught up with her as she walked down the corridor on Deck 11, where an entire set of compartment doors had suddenly refused to open, even with override codes. Since the compartments contained secure material, Tasha felt she needed to be present. "I can handle this or assign another security lieutenant."

"Shift change is only an hour away," she said. It wasn't an argument, but rather a statement.

"Look at it this way," he continued. "You lost three of your officers within the last 10 days, and on Day 11, you lost your foster mother. And now you're shoving everyone away and snapping at people who are only trying to help."

"They're trying to 'help' by telling me how I ought to be acting," she replied. "What does everyone want from me? Did they want me to fall apart the instant I heard news I'd been expecting for weeks, and be outwardly prostrate with grief _on the bridge_? That's not how I operate! And the suggestion that I didn't care about my foster family is just...just because I'm not crying my eyes out in front of the entire crew, putting on a show for everyone...that's just ludicrous!"

He shrugged. "It's not what's hurled at you, it's how you handle it," he said. "You could catch it and appreciate that people give a damn, or you can swing at it. Stop swinging, all right?"

"I'd suspect I'm not the only officer aboard this ship who appreciates sincere condolences, but doesn't appreciate people trying to drag a reaction out of me, you know?"

"Lay low for the rest of the shift," he said, his tone making it clear that this wasn't a mere request. "Hand me the code tablet, and I'll take care of this."

She handed him the security tablet, which held specific override codes for secure compartments. But she wasn't happy about it, at all. "Go home, chat with your sponsor, get some sleep. I've already spoken with you about getting some sleep. Swallow your pride, all right?"

"But—," she began.

He shot her a look that shut her up, and immediately she stopped her instinctive protest. "Yes, sir," she said.


	11. Chapter 11

**Future's Present, Chapter 11**

* * *

_**USS Enterprise,**_** Natasha Yar's cabin, 2015 hours**

Will Riker had been tempted to drop by Tasha's cabin earlier in the evening, to see how she was doing after an awful 24 hours: Two security officers had died in the line of duty the day before, and then she learned of the death of her foster mother on Earth. He knew she hadn't slept since she woke up yesterday. But he didn't want to be present during a private conversation between her and her foster father, Rustam Ilienko. Will knew that although the allotted 10 minutes had passed, she would almost certainly still be awake, and she was.

"Thought I'd stop by," he said. "May I come in?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir," she replied, already at ease. Will was glad to see that at least she'd changed out of her uniform and into her usual, lounging attire—loose-fitting, nondescript, unisex, as usual.

"How'd it go?" he asked. He knew better than to ask the 'how are you doing' question.

"I spoke with Rustam," she said, apparently unaware that her native, Slavic accent had re-emerged since she'd been chattering in Ukrainian for 10 minutes, then thinking in Ukrainian afterward until Will showed up. "He's doing well, all things considered. They had a service for her the next day. Both their children came back before she died, so they could spend time with her. It was nice to be able to speak with him, and know he's doing all right."

"So I hear," Will quipped, smiling a bit.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"You've gotten your accent back."

"Oh," she said. "I didn't even realize I was doing that. Sorry."

"It happens," he replied. "I'm glad he's doing all right, in spite of everything."

"Olena was ready to go, and he was there with her when she went," Tasha said. "She was so sick, she'd refused all but palliative care. She had faith that she'd go on, you know? She wasn't living life. And I'm happy that she isn't in pain anymore, or feeling nauseous, which she did all the time. She couldn't eat, couldn't chew. She had to be fed with supplements."

As they sat side-by-side on her couch to chat, Will saw her do something he hadn't seen her do since they were living on Earth: Curling her left leg beneath her as she reclined back against the opposite corner of the couch. _Finally, she's relaxing, again,_ Will thought. _Now she just needs to get a good night's sleep. No nightmares, just sleep._

"When was the last time you saw her?" he asked.

"Right before the _Enterprise_ embarked from Earth," Tasha recalled. "I'd taken shore leave to put some belongings in storage and I saw to see the Ilienkos while I was there. She was having a lot of difficulty getting around. We talked a lot. Mostly she just wanted to talk and she wanted to be outside. The weather was nice enough we went out a couple of times. I took her to her church once. Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn't light her candles, so I lit them for her."

"How many?" Will asked.

"She always lit two," Tasha said. "One for her family, and one for the people left behind on Turkana. She did that every week."

Will remembered Tasha doing the same on Earth, just before they left to return to the 24th century. It was in a small, Eastern Orthodox church located up the stairs from the community center where Tasha volunteered while they were living there in Kansas City. The center had been instrumental in giving them a hand up, but now he knew that was only part of the reason she wanted to help in return. After awhile, he understood that the similarities to the church her family had frequented in Turkana (and many of them ultimately died in that church) was in some way comforting to her, though she didn't go into the sanctuary until that last day. He'd found her sitting in the foyer, having lit two candles: One for her family, and one for the people they were leaving behind in the 21st century.

He didn't think she was a believer—she insisted she wasn't. Will suspected instead that the act had been more symbolic and familiar than one taken in true faith. Most remnants of any traditional faith she learned from her family were lost amidst the atrocities that occurred around the Turkanan Revolt.

"I remember that first evening, after I arrived on Earth, Olena sat me down and we talked about my family," Tasha said. "Since she and Rustam had lived there before the Revolt, she knew my whole family. I told her what had happened after the foreign nationals had been evacuated, that my family was dead. She said she would never want to replace my mother, but that she'd be there to listen to me if I ever needed to talk. And we did talk, but more like she was my aunt, or a mentor, but not as my mother. I never stopped missing my own mother. Olena took me into her home, but I never really gave her that chance. That's pretty horrible, huh?"

"I could bullshit you, and say it wasn't," Will replied.

"It is," she replied. "My only manifestation of teenage rebellion, only I never really grew out of it. I appreciate your honesty."

"I feel the same way," he admitted. "I barely remember my own mother, but I'll always miss her."

She nodded. "I figured so."

"What's going to help, right now?" he asked. "Taking a shift off? Taking some leave? Just going back on duty tomorrow?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, anymore."

"I used to pretend my mother was still alive," Will said. "And after awhile I really started believing it. I could almost feel that mom WAS there when I came home from school. I'd have pretend conversations with her while I was playing outside. I'd talk with her while I was falling asleep, and in my dreams she'd always answer me. She was always there to listen when things weren't going right. She was there when my dad wasn't. And then I started believing she really was here. I went to school and told all my friends about what a great mom I had, and that she was always there when I came home from school, and that she never yelled at me. But now, I know my mom never really answered me."

"So, all those conversations you'd been having . . ."

"Imaginary," he said. "Wishful thinking. My dad got a call from one of my teachers, and he laid the law down. I can still hear him shouting, disappointed that he was even discussing this. 'Will, your mother is DEAD. She died in a car accident and you nearly burned to death with her. You've got to let her go and this charade ends NOW. You understand that?' I stayed in my room and cried all night. Me, the tough and all-together First Officer-to-be, sitting in my bedroom, bawling into my pillow so my dad wouldn't hear me. I didn't discuss my mother at school again, after that. I finally stopped speaking to her, myself, even in my own head. I was afraid of what would happen if my dad found out I was doing that. And the first time he brought another woman home . . . I hated all his girlfriends. I was sullen and nasty to every one of them. Really inexcusable."

"Not entirely inexcusable," he said.

"To them, yes it was," he countered. "To my dad . . .it was on. I hated how he was carrying on with other women, in our house. That pissed me off. It still pisses me off."

"When was the last time you spoke with your father?

"Years ago," he replied. "Uh . . . sixteen years ago."

"If you had the chance to speak with him again, what would you say?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Not sure. I wouldn't know where to start. There have been too many other issues piled on top of that one. What would you say to your sister, given the chance?"

"Nothing at all," Tasha replied. "My sister I don't care about, at all."

"You used to," Will said.

"I remember right after my brother was killed," Tasha said. "I was trying to find shelter for us,"

"For you and your sister."

"We got caught by a gang," she said, looking down at her hands, which were clenched in her lap. "They gave me a choice. If I wanted my sister to live, I had to do something for them, only at the time I didn't know what they were talking about. They put us in a closet. We were there for a long time, pitch black, Ishara was crying and I remember speaking aloud with my mother even though I knew she was dead. I believed her soul was living around me and maybe she could tell me what to do. I asked her over and over, 'What do they want? What should I do?' But I never got an answer. So, they opened the door, took us out, and I begged, 'I'll do whatever you want, just please don't hurt my sister'. They took me into a different room and I found out what they'd been talking about, only they didn't exactly explain what was happening, and I was crying, 'Mama, help me, why are they doing this?' and still got no answer. So I knew my mother was gone and I stopped believing there was a God, too. Olena didn't understand that, how I got through those years without the comfort of faith. But it seemed so empty, to me. In my experience, no one's listening to prayers."

Her voice was distant and even, but her eyes told a different story. Intense, but detached, almost clinically relating what had happened and how profoundly it affected her. In the face of her discussion about being gang-raped at the age of 6, he didn't know whether it was appropriate to touch her, or not. She had that faraway look in her eyes that he'd seen from time to time on Earth when he knew she'd been thinking about Turkana.

"When was the last time you spoke with Olena Ilienko?" he finally asked.

"I sent her a note about two weeks ago," she replied. "I knew she was sick. And we'd chatted on subspace just after we got back from Earth."

"Did you tell her about your volunteering at The Rec?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I did," she replied, a small smile breaking through, even as tears began glistening in her eyes. "And I told her about you, and working at the 43rd, and about Kansas City, and about everything I'm getting to do and see here, and all that I'm learning."

"What'd she say?"

"I think she was pleased, you know?" she said, then swallowed twice against the lump in her throat. Her left leg moved out from beneath her and rested on the floor with the other, allowing her to scoot forward on the couch.

"I don't doubt that she was pleased," Will replied. "She took you in, you paid that forward to people at The Rec."

"If it happened 350 years ago, is that paying it forward, or paying it backward?" she asked.

Will smiled. "It's paying it back," he said. "And I'd bet everything that you made her very proud, every day."

He knew—even without having known her foster family—how to hit her where she lived. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees, and nodded in response to what he'd just said. But she didn't even glance sideways at him as a wave of vulnerability broke through her normally strong reserves. No one else on the _Enterprise_ witnessed it, but Will Riker saw it coming from light years away.

A single tear slipped down her face, then another, and soon they were coming faster than she could brush them away. She tried pressing one fist against her forehead, tried holding her breath, tried shaking her head, imploring herself to _stop, stop, stop,_ even as Will slid his hand to her upper back, rubbing it gently.

"I'm so sorry," Tasha whispered, her voice breaking as her self-control shredded in front of him.

"Don't be sorry," Will said. "Come here."

He nudged her sideways, and as she felt his arms tightening around her, she understood that he wasn't doing this to calm her down. Will began rocking her slightly, granting unspoken permission for her to just let everything out—all the suppressed mourning, anguish, fright and guilt. Primed by fatigue and recent events, she began shaking with multiple sobs that she finally allowed loose against the crook of his elbow. She was in a safe place, in the embrace of someone she trusted, someone who truly understood the anchor he provided. Will Riker would never think less of her, would never tell her how she should be feeling. He'd just be there, and he did understand.

Will understood her story almost as well as he understood his own, and rested the side of his face against the back of her head, and hoped that no one else on the _Enterprise_ called either of them for any reason, right now. He recalled a similar feeing when as a boy he'd finally grieved for his own mother—albeit alone—and within a few minutes, his own, silent tears merged with hers, and that was OK for both of them. They were using each other in an intimate and trusting way, allowing themselves to move forward.

_When did Tasha ever have an opportunity to mourn her family, or mourn anyone she's lost?_ Will thought, as he felt Tasha relaxing in his embrace, even as he felt her hands reaching to gently grasp his forearms as he held her. _Never on Turkana, probably not in her foster home, certainly never at the Academy or aboard a Starship, until now._

* * *

"You all right?"

Tasha nodded, still not interested in sitting up. She'd even tossed both legs up on the couch and rested sideways against Will, the side of her head resting on his upper arm. She felt like she'd been crying for years, but didn't know how much time actually had passed—maybe an hour, maybe more. Neither of them cared, really.

"Yeah," she finally said, her voice hoarse but steadying. She let out another deep breath and shook her head. "I really lost my shit, didn't I?"

Will couldn't help but smile, even in spite of her continued use of questionable language. "We both lost it," he remarked. "You're as human as I am."

"You're superhuman to have hung around."

"I'll always be here. You know that," he replied, reaching to brush her bangs off of her face. He thought about telling her that he liked her hair better when it was longer, the way she'd worn it when they were stranded on Earth. After they returned, she'd had it cut short, again—thought not as short as it had been before their Earthbound adventure. But he wasn't the one to be talking: He'd shaved his beard shortly after their return, also wanting to "get back to normal" as soon as possible.

"That's two I owe you," she said, only half-joking.

"No, you saved my life a couple of weeks ago," he said. "That counts for at least three acts of big brotherdom."

She actually smiled, and he tightened his arms around her, embracing her again. He really didn't want her to sit up, either, but eventually she did. Close friends or not, it wasn't exactly proper for _Enterprise_'s security chief to be leaning in the First Officer's lap.

* * *

**2130 hours**

"Will, what was it like to die?" she asked.

They were sitting next to each other, glasses of beer in hand. They'd finally stood up and went to the replicator for something they enjoyed from time to time on Earth: Cold beer. Will had brought back two bottles of local swill brewed in Kansas City. He had it chemically analyzed and programmed into the replicators, and enjoyed a glass every once in a while. Tasha wasn't much of a beer drinker—she'd served too much of it as part of her Earth career—but after everything had had happened that day, she had one, too.

KC the cat had hopped up on the couch, as well, sitting between Will and Tasha, just as he used to do on Earth when they were having long conversations like this. He and Will would never be best buddies, but they tolerated each other. It was a start. Will had offered the olive branch of finding him a girlfriend, after all.

He shrugged. "Didn't quite get to the 'dead' point," he said. "Thanks to you and the medical team."

"You were at the jumping-off place," she remarked.

"You know, when I the IED went off, I didn't realize how bad it was," he replied. "I thought I'd just been knocked over. I stood up and called for a beam-up . . . next thing I knew, I was falling over in sickbay. And had this jolt of . . . I don't know if it was adrenaline or what, but suddenly I had energy but I couldn't make my body do anything. I couldn't breathe, couldn't cough. I remember looking up and seeing you, seeing the look on your face, you were saying something but I didn't know what it was. Mostly what I remember hearing was Dr. Crusher shouting orders. I remember that vividly."

"And then what?"

"It's hard to describe," he began.

"Was it frightening or comforting?"

"Comforting, mostly," he replied. "A lightness, a sense that all the weight had been lifted, that feeling you get when you're about to fall asleep and you know you'll get to sleep in the next morning—unless someone infiltrated your cabin with obnoxious, wake-up music."

She nodded as he playfully nudged her. She'd been responsible for those wake-up calls, and couldn't resist smiling a bit.

"It was this feeling of complete relaxation, beyond the pain I'd been experiencing right before it," he continued. "Suddenly, I didn't care that I couldn't breathe, and I didn't care about whether I woke up or not. And then there was nothing, just a sensation of going to sleep."

"Then Beverly woke you up."

"I don't remember that part."

"She probably had you under partial anesthesia when she removed the ventilator."

"The first thing I remember was Dr. Crusher shouting, and of someone cursing loudly," he said. "I'd heard noises before, but the shouting and cursing got my attention."

"Must have been when Saul Minnerly got his chest decompressed," she remarked. "He loved that."

"Is that what was happening?"

"Yep," she said, shaking her head. Minnerly had been shot in the chest on Sora and was being his usual, profane self in his attempt to be a Tough Guy. Tasha had cursed back at him in an attempt to get him to lie down, and even Beverly Crusher had uttered the word 'bullshit' right to his face. "You must have heard that and thought you were in Purgatory."

"Nah, I knew I was back on the _Enterprise_," he said, laughing outright. "The dying part isn't as unknown to me, anymore. I mean, none of us are getting out of this alive, right?"

She smiled. "I guess not."

"Did I hear Beverly Crusher say the word 'shit' during that mess?"

Now she laughed. "You did," she confirmed.

"Now I know you've spent too much time in sickbay, when the staff there starts picking up your speech patterns," he remarked.

"I think Beverly had a pretty good grasp on cursing well before I came into the picture," Tasha replied. "Good thing, especially since I do plan on spending more time in there."

Will glanced over his glass as he took another sip. "What do you mean?"

"She spoke with me about the advanced tactical medic program," Tasha said. "She said I could do didactic and some of my clinicals here."

"You'd need to leave the ship to finish your clinicals," he said, already familiar with the rigorous demands of the exclusive program.

She nodded. "Yeah, I would, if I chose to go through with it."

"Do you want to?"

She nodded again, a small smile creeping across her face. "I do," she said. "I hadn't really decided until now, but I do."

"Have you spoken with Captain Picard about this?" he said. "It's a pretty big commitment, and you'd be taking a leave of absence."

"I wanted to speak with you, first," she said. "See what you thought of it. Is it possible for me to take such a long leave as a senior officer?"

"Of course it's possible," Will said. "We''d rearrange things a little while you're gone, but to have you come back with advanced medical credentials . . . that's big."

"So, what do you think?"

"I think it's a great idea!" he replied. "I know you'd be good at it."

"I don't want to disappoint Captain Picard . . ," she began.

"You know what?" he said. "Picard didn't choose you just because you're a superlative tactical comm officer and because you can kick everyone's ass. He chose you to be security chief because of the example you set for others. You aren't one to rest on your laurels. And here you are, talking about advancing your training. He'd be proud. And I'm proud. And I'll stand by your decision, whatever it is."

She took a deep breath. "I want to go through the program," she said. "I'll be studying so hard that I won't have a life for awhile. But I figure I've got one life, only so much time, I just want to learn and live as much as I can before my own number comes up."

"You're still having that same premonition?" Will frowned. "Now you're scaring me."

"It scares me, too, sometimes," she replied. "We're all mortal."

She shrugged.

"I'd hoped that one would have gone away by now," he said. "Maybe you need to talk with Deanna about this when she gets back."

"Maybe I will."

"I'm glad you told me, though."

"And I'm glad you listened."

"I'll always listen to you," Will said.

* * *

Hastened by cereal malt, their conversation soon descended into the morbid.

"If I kick off before you do, please don't let anyone dress me up, or lay me out in a box like a dead doll, or put lipstick on what's left of me," she said. "I don't want anyone gawking at my carcass at a funeral."

"Promise me the same thing if I go first, and it's a deal," Will replied.

She nodded. "Absolutely, lipstick on you would be very wrong, Will. And don't let people get too drunk at my wake," she said, shuddering. "Don't get me wrong, I want people to cut loose in my memory, but I don't want anyone remembering me while they're hugging a toilet."

Despite himself, Will convulsed in laughter.

"Well, I'm serious!" she said, also laughing. "If you had any idea how many wakes were held at the 43rd, and how many people I found crying in the bathrooms while they were throwing up at the same time? That's just wrong on so many levels."

Will's request was more specific. "If anything happens to me while I'm here, cook me down, and sprinkle what's left of me into Prince William Sound, off the coast of Valdez," he said.

"You got it," she promised.

* * *

They were stretching, getting ready to stand up after talking for hours, just like old times.

Tasha had been drowsing off. Will had thought fleetingly about staying the night with her. They had fallen asleep together several times on Earth after similar conversations. It had always remained platonic, best friends being comforted by the presence of each other. She likely wouldn't have minded if he'd stayed, holding her as she slept like he had after an upsetting day in Kansas City. For the first time in a long time, the sensation of having someone against her back was comforting enough that she didn't have nightmares for the first night in years.

_She needs another night like that, where she can just sleep,_ Will thought. He would have appreciated it, too. But this was not Kansas City, and the _Enterprise _rumor mill would have cranked up if he'd been seen leaving Tasha Yar's cabin at 0500 the next morning, regardless of the reason.

"I wish I could stay without the gossip network going nuts," he remarked.

"I wish you could, too. I miss—," she began, not sure of what she should say, then shrugged a bit, stammering. "You know what I mean," she finally said, knowing he'd understand what she suddenly was uncomfortable saying out loud.

He nodded, smiling. Almost unconsciously, she moved into his embrace and as he felt her against him, he felt a sudden need to pull her closer, hold her longer. The fingers of one of his hands spread through the hair on the back of her head, as if to protect her. He didn't want to let her go, and she couldn't help but notice that, even though she chose not to verbalize it. There was a lot that she found she suddenly couldn't say, so she opted to return his embrace, hoping that spoke for her.

"You're going to be a great captain, someday," she said, looking up at him as his arms finally relaxed and her hands rose between them to gently rest against his shoulders.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to be one, yet," he admitted, shaking his head.

"You mean the captain part, or the leaving the _Enterprise_ part?"

"The latter," he said. "For me right now, being the first officer aboard the _Enterprise_ beats being a captain aboard any other vessel, as far as I'm concerned. There's no ship like the _Enterprise_."

"Promise me something," she said. "If you get a great opportunity to grow through being a leader someplace else, you go where you're destined to go. And you won't let us hold you back. I'll be taking a huge chance leaving the _Enterprise_ to get medical training. It's like leaving my family. But if I'm off the ship and then I come back and find out that you were offered a great ship and turned it down because it wasn't the _Enterprise_, I just might have to kick your butt."

He couldn't help but smile, because he knew she was partially serious. Deanna also had discussed that with him. He was so hung up on being captain of the _Enterprise_-and ONLY the _Enterprise_-that he'd nearly forgotten that Captain Picard had quite a few years left in his career, and Picard wasn't giving the _Enterprise_ up anytime soon.

"Remember, tomorrow, you're off duty until 0900," he reminded her as they broke their embrace and he triggered her cabin's door to open. "Get some sleep. And if I see you anywhere outside of this cabin before 0845, I'll be kicking _your_ butt."

And Tasha, who unbenownst to either of them only had one month left to live, laughed with him. It seemed so innocuously funny.


	12. Chapter 12

**Future's Present, Chapter 12 **

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41503.9, 0830 hours**

Saul Minnerly wondered what the hell he'd done, this time.

Must be pretty bad, worse than the usual, 'questionable language' demerits, he thought, as he was being escorted through corridors in the custody of his supervisors. Lt. Yar and Lt. Worf flanked Minnerly on each side firmly grasping one of the ensign's forearms in case he either bolted or fought their demand that he be escorted to a meeting with Captain Picard.

So much for having a better day, today, Minnerly thought. He'd been exhausted the day before, because he'd been up half the night before. His 1-year-old daughter snuck from her crib and activated the cabin's main door at 0100 hours. Minnerly and his wife both jolted awake at the same time, flooded with a parental, adrenalin surge that sent both of them searching for Lilija immediately. Seconds later, he found Lilija toddling through the corridor only two meters outside the cabin door. A wave of relief and embarrassment shot through him as he nabbed her and retreated, hoping no one had seen his AWOL baby in the corridor. He returned to the cabin, and found his wife already programming the cabin's door to not open when Lilija passed in front of it.

The next day he was tired and grouchy, and had gone straight to bed once he got off duty. But now, after a full night's sleep, a refreshed Minnerly was about to begin inventory on hand-to-hand weapons when Lt. Yar and Lt. Worf arrived together in the weapons storage facility. Lt. Worf's chronic, 'don't-mess-with-me' expression didn't tell Minnerly much, but Lt. Yar actually looked hacked off.

Minnerly's mind was racing, by then. Couldn't be language demerits, he thought, knowing if that were the case, Natasha Yar wouldn't be the one to be talking. Her mouth was as filthy as his was, and he'd grown up around smugglers, so he could crank out obscenities with the best of them.

He began imagining worse-case scenarios as he was paraded through the corridors enroute to the main bridge lift. It occurred to him that Lilija's escape the night before last might have something to do with it. But once they arrived on the bridge, he was escorted to stand in the center circle—right in front of a glowering Jean-Luc Picard. The captain's expression was dour, stern. Minnerly sensed this had nothing to do with his kid.

Picard stood up from his chair and took two steps forward, glaring intently at Minnerly's face.

"Those of us privy to your performance aboard this ship always knew this day would come, Minnerly," the captain began. "We also knew it would take our two top marital arts experts to escort you to the bridge to face the consequences of your deeds."

"Sir—," Minnerly began, nearly sputtering in shock. This was a misunderstanding. What the hell did I do that was so awful I'm being dragged to the bridge?

"Did I give you permission to speak?" Picard interjected, almost shouting.

Chagrined, Minnerly felt his neck beginning to flush, and that just made everything worse. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to see him sweating through an ass-chewing.

"Saul Minnerly, you are hereby stripped of your current rank as senior ensign," Picard said, sternly.

Minnerly felt himself nodding, on numb autopilot. Oh shit, he thought. How am I going to tell my dad about this? What the hell did I DO?

" . . . and you are now promoted to lieutenant, junior grade, effective immediately," Picard finished, allowing an amused glint to escape his intense expression. Minnerly's breath caught, and for a few seconds he was unable to respond.

"Who knew that you, of all people, would be at a loss for words, Lieutenant Minnerly," Picard said, reaching toward him with a second, filled-in pip for his uniform collar. Minnerly stood patiently at attention while the pip was adjusted. "You wear that well, lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir," Minnerly finally said, allowing himself a small smile of relief, even as Lt. Yar let go of his arm and playfully jostled his shoulder a bit. Even Lt. Worf looked satisfied that the gig had gone off as well as it had.

Though Worf didn't understand Lt. Yar's idea to promote Minnerly under the guise of him being in trouble, he went along with it as security's second-in-command. Worf saw some similarities between himself and Minnerly, a martial arts and tactical whiz who had grown up in the seedy, underground universe of smugglers. That hard edge tended to emerge when Minnerly felt outmatched, so Worf been ready for Minnerly to spit out a slew of obscenities when he was placed "in custody" minutes earlier.

But now, Minnerly was flushing, relief sweeping over him as he received congratulations from bridge officers, who had all apparently been in on the joke. He turned to Lt. Yar, who was grinning broadly, by then. Minnerly's streetsmarts usually meant he was in on every promotion gag in the book, but he hadn't seen this one coming, at all.

"All right, you got me," he admitted.

* * *

"I'm just glad he didn't try to get away," Tasha muttered after the newly promoted Lt. Minnerly departed the bridge, still in a post-surprise haze. "And he didn't even curse at us! I kept waiting for it, but he never said anything."

"Perhaps he actually is reading his language demerits, instead of deleting them," Worf remarked. "I am sure he knew this was a ruse."

"You know, I don't think he did," Tasha said, shaking her head. "He was stammering too much. I think he was even sweating."

"Lt. Minnerly will be a formidable opponent in the upcoming martial arts competition," Worf remarked.

"Did you enter, yet?"

"I will not be participating," Worf said.

"Why not?" Tasha asked, somewhat surprised. Worf appreciated any opportunity to fight.

"Klingons do not spar," he said. "I fear I would . . . seriously injure other participants."

She shook her head. "Worf, I don't think you're giving those other participants enough credit, and that bothers me. Do you really believe that you're the only one aboard this ship who can win a fight?"

He glanced away—not exactly embarrassed, but resolutely wishing he'd said nothing. Then he looked at her. "I am honored to serve with fellow Starfleet officers," he said. "However, as a Klingon, I have more to defend than merely a title."

"You're just afraid that someone might beat you," she said.

He paused. "Yes."

"So, you're not hesitant to a fight to the death," Tasha continued. "But in a contest where you feel you'd need to hold back to avoid killing anyone, you're afraid you might lose, and losing would make you look bad."

"I do not concern myself with how I might look to others."

"Of course you don't," Tasha shrugged. "But you can't defend your honor if you sit out of the contest, and everyone aboard the ship knows how much you love hand-to-hand combat, so they'll wonder why you sat out. They might think you're afraid of trying."

"I am NOT afraid of a contest!"

"Then you should rethink your decision about not entering that contest," she remarked. "You said it yourself that Minnerly would be formidable opponent."

"But I do not wish to harm Lt. Minnerly," Worf stated.

"If I were you, I'd be more concerned about Lt. Minnerly harming you," Tasha said. "He's got the highest kickboxing rating available. Arrogance will get you killed, Worf. It's advisable to be confident in your abilities, but if you're arrogant, you're thinking more about yourself, and not about what your opponent might do. Don't assume, and don't underestimate."

* * *

**Captain Picard's ready room, 1100 hours**

"An advanced field medical rating is certainly a high-level certification, lieutenant," Picard said in response to Lt. Yar's request. She had finally requested a private meeting to discuss her wishes to receive advanced field medical training. "Only one step below being a physician, as I understand it. It's certainly an admirable goal, and you would be the first aboard the _Enterprise_ to hold that certification. But how would you maintain that level of competence while serving as security chief?"

"Filling in every once in a while in sickbay on by off-duty time," Tasha replied. "There's always someone who needs a few hours off here and there."

"That's quite a time commitment," he nodded.

"Yes, sir," she replied. "And it's not something I would take on lightly, either. I know it would mean I'd be away from the ship for nearly four months to complete clinicals and testing, and that I would also need to fulfill relicensing every two years at Starfleet Medical."

"Tasha, how do you feel that this would impact your focus on away missions?"

"A tactical medic's primary focus is always security, sir," she said. "Immediate treatment and evacuation are basic adjuncts for every Starfleet security officer. An advanced rating would enable me to render advanced medical care in the event that injured or ill crewmembers could not be evacuated immediately."

He nodded, glanced at his desk, tapped it with his index fingernail. "I know that your focus on security matters, your tactical expertise, must remain intact as long as you serve in your current capacity. I don't want that to change in the face of your additional studies."

"It won't change, sir," she said. "I hardly will be the first Starfleet officer to successfully complete this training and return to my previous post. Many other program participants also serve aboard starships."

"No senior officer has ever completed this level of training," he reminded her.

"Then, I'd like to be the first," she replied. "You're always encouraging us to branch out, to learn everything we can, to reach farther than we thought possible and enrich our lives."

"Admittedly, I hadn't thought that you possessed this interest in medicine, lieutenant," Picard said. "And quite frankly, I believe that says more about me than it does about you. I would be remiss in not encouraging you to develop that interest, even if it might mean your career path may change."

She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.

"Just as this ship moves through different sectors, so do her officers move through different phases of life," he added. "I fully understand that this may either mean that the _Enterprise_ will have a cross-trained security chief who moonlights in sickbay and doesn't need much medical oversight in the field. But, in my experience with crewmembers who have taken on similar challenges, I've found that it's normal for their focus to deviate. I want you to consider that as you move through this program, your goals may change. How you view situations may change. Every human being faces their own evolution."

"Statistically, it's harder to train a specialist to the advanced security and tactical level, because their instincts are more focused," she agreed. "But security is my instinct. That will never change."

So this is what parents go through when their children are torn between career opportunities, Picard thought. The consummate captain, Picard nonetheless found himself torn between the ship's need for a focused chief of security, and his wishes that Natasha Yar would be all that she could be. He knew she would be an outstanding, field medic, and hoped that in the end, she'd still remain his chief of security.

* * *

**USS **_**Enterprise**_**, Shuttlebay 3, 1615 hours**

Deanna Troi was relieved to be back aboard the _Enterprise_ after her psychology conference. It wasn't a complete disappointment, but there was no new information. It was strictly review. She'd been bored, and everyone else was, too. She could sense that other participants were thinking about anything other than cerebral plasticity and hypnosis techniques: _Should we tell him that his fly is open? Where do you want to go eat lunch? This is worse than last year on Luna, and THAT was really awful._

"How was the conference?" Tasha asked, as she greeted Deanna and four other officers disembarking from the shuttle. Tasha needed to speak with the shuttle's pilot about her manual, check-off approach. Ensign Tabor executed a smooth landing, but she nearly sheared the top of the shuttle off in her quest to keep the skids from scraping the floor and bouncing the landing.

"Necessary," she replied, honestly. "Only one more to go, and then I'll be done with licensure for the next two years. I heard you lost your foster mother during my time away. I'm sorry that I wasn't here for you."

"Thanks," Tasha replied, accepting her friend's honest condolences. "She had a good life."

"I understand you've made a decision about the advanced field medic course, also," Deanna said.

"I'm going to go for it," Tasha said. "Beverly's already joking with me about it, because I'll start several days after the martial arts contest. And she said, 'Since it'll take you several days to recover from that martial arts massacre that I wish WASN'T being held, you'll need several more days of rest before your life ends.' And I told her that I didn't have a life anyway, so I'm looking forward to my free time being eaten up with studying."

"You'll do fine," Deanna replied, sensing that Tasha was uneasy about part of her didactic curriculum.

"I'm a bit nervous about the psychology," Tasha admitted. "It's very subjective, even in the clinical arena."

"Learning the norms for every developmental stage is as important as knowing about abnormalities," Deanna replied. "And it's equally important not to pigeonhole patients. That's the biggest challenge, learning what is normal for that person, and going from there."

* * *

**Deanna Troi's cabin, 2115 hours**

Opening her backlogged mail was the worst part of coming back, Deanna had decided. After reading and replying to 51 messages left for her by various crewmembers during her absence, Deanna began compiling a recommendation that she would send to Starfleet Medical for Natasha Yar to be admitted into the advanced field medic program. She accessed Yar's psychological profile for various clarifications and notations, and found a profile addendum written about Tasha by a psychologist who evaluated her 10 months after her rescue from Turkana IV:

"_This is an individual who witnessed the cadre atrocities, survived a revolution, the nuking of her home world and years of violence, starvation and rape for the trade-off of relative safety as an escort. She remains nonchalant about these atrocities, and it's not a front. She learned not to emote, not to make a sound. To my knowledge, no one in our counseling group has ever seen her shed a tear. That potential is certainly there, as she's learning the difference between a so-called normal childhood and the one she endured._

_I feel that dragging memories out of her would do more harm than good. I don't think she trusted us enough to discuss it with us. She wants to move forward. When she mentioned the death of her brother, it was with an almost clinical detachment, as if she were a seasoned soldier having witnessed the death of a member of her company. _

_Natasha feels compelled to constantly prove herself worthy of living among her rescuers. But she is succeeding because she refuses to view herself as a victim. Instead, she independently regards herself as fortunate to have escaped, and to have such a promising future ahead of her. Perhaps the day will come when she feels secure enough to discuss her early life, but only after she's established herself in whatever field she chooses, and develops mutually trusting relationships. She scored especially high in tactical and combat disciplines, in communications and linguistics. Her medical knowledge also is superlative, however she has elected to pursue the tactical comm track. Her knowledge of engineering and other sciences will come with education, but those are not her natural strengths._

_Having come of age in an environment where submissiveness was essential for survival, Natasha will need further mentoring on the art of leadership. She clearly has much to teach and has good instincts, but her management and leadership skills are not as developed as is normal for a 16 year old. I strongly recommend remediation in team-building. She also should benefit from the course we require of non-human applicants for Starfleet Academy about human psychology. It would help her in understanding what is normal and what is not in the society where she now lives."_

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_** in the Minos system, Stardate 41798.3 , 0950 hours**

Had they not been dodging laser fire from a Minos assault probe, Will Riker and Tasha Yar would have thought they were reliving their first days stranded in Earth's 21st century again, ducking behind trees and bushes in various parks, trying to keep from being seen in their Starfleet uniforms. Now they wished things were so simple, again.

The _Enterprise_ had been investigating the disappearance of another Starfleet vessel, the USS Drake. Will had been offered his own command aboard that ship, but turned it down to fine-tune his command experience as first officer aboard the _Enterprise_. Now the Drake was missing, presumed destroyed by the same, automated weapons systems now threatening the _Enterprise_ and five members of its away team.

I can't believe Captain Picard took this risk, coming down here, Will thought. His fury at Picard's disregard for common policy was tempered by his concern for his captain: Picard and Dr. Crusher had fallen into a deep pit while trying to escape one of the Minos probes. Picard seemed to be all right, but Dr. Crusher was seriously injured. They all needed to beam out of there, but couldn't. A similar, assault probe system was stalking the _Enterprise_ in orbit, and had not only shut down communications, but also prevented transporter beams from working.

Tasha was relieved that Data was able to jump safely into the pit to aid Dr. Crusher, who was in compensated shock from fractures and internal bleeding. Data already had freed Will from a force field shot around him by one of the first probes they encountered, before they realized how deadly the probes were. As Will stood encased in the stasis-like force field, Tasha remembered that awful time when he'd been beamed back from Sora with life-threatening injuries. First shrapnel and now this, she thought. Memories of a days-ago conversation had flashed through her mind, when he'd told her where to scatter his ashes if he ever died in the line of duty.

But Will, who emerged from the stasis field a little groggy but otherwise all right, had a different, feeling of doom that had little to do with his own fate. Just after Captain Picard successfully shut down the final, Minos planetary surface probe that threatened to kill them all, Will glanced beside him to make sure that Data and Tasha were all right.

Then Will got the coldest, most awful feeling when he saw a dark glob of dirt across the left side of Tasha's face.

She must have picked it up when she dove over the side of this berm, he thought. But it scared him, and he couldn't come up with a reason why. Almost involuntarily, he reached out to wipe it away.

"You've got something on your face," he remarked, brushing at the dirt with his fingers. "Hold still."

"Thanks," she said, allowing the semi-embarrassing, quick-clean job, as if she were a 3-year-old who'd just eaten a chocolate ice cream cone. Then she caught the look on his face, even as the dirt began flaking off.

"What's wrong?"

"This," he said. "I think I got rid of most of it. It just gave me a creeps."

"Dirt on my face gives you the creeps?" she replied, somewhat amused.

"Just a bad feeling," he remarked, choosing not to go into it, right now. "Maybe it's only this planet. I just want to get the hell out of here."

"I'm right on your heels."

* * *

While the away team battled for their lives on Minos, Geordi LaForge had been left in command of the _Enterprise_, and wound up fighting not only the orbital probes, but also a ranking officer who attempted to bully his way into command. But Geordi stood his ground against Lt. Logan, and ultimately gave the chief engineer just what he was after: Command . . . of the saucer section. While a chagrined Logan and Counselor Troi staffed the bridge of the saucer section, LaForge returned to Minos and ultimately faked out the orbital probe, destroying it in the planet's atmosphere at about the same time that Picard shut the entire program down, clearing the way for everyone to be beamed up.

When the _Enterprise_ was separated, more than 75 percent of the ship's medical compliment stayed behind on the saucer section, leaving only two trauma teams for the stardrive section. One of them took charge of Dr. Crusher, and another did a cursory scan of Will Riker, to ensure that he was all right after being released from the probe's stasis, earlier. After the complicated and delicate procedure to rejoin the ship's engines and lower decks with the saucer section, Picard asked LaForge to join him in his ready room.

"I understand there was sparring on the bridge between you and Chief Engineer Logan," Picard said.

"Yes, sir," Geordi said.

"Charles Logan is a very capable engineer, and he outranked you," Picard said. "You still refused to relinquish command to him. That's a risky move, lieutenant."

"I stand by my decisions, sir," he replied.

"And I stand by them, as well," Picard said. "You did an outstanding job of juggling tactical, leadership and personnel issues all at the same time. Handling those issues simultaneously are the marks of a natural leader, Geordi. As impressed as I am with how tactfully you handled this situation, I'm also very impressed with your knowledge of the ship's engineering capabilities. I read in your personnel file that you have a double degree in Engineering from Starfleet Academy."

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"And yet, you were placed in the command track," Picard said.

"Yes, sir," Geordi said. "I was surprised, as well, when I received that designation, but I've done my best to learn from it while maintaining engineering expertise."

"Of that, I have no doubt."

* * *

**Captain's ready room, 1558 hours**

Will arrived for his usual, 1600 briefing in Captain Picard's ready room just in time to see Geordi LaForge leaving with an extra skip in his step.

"He's in a good mood," Riker said, smiling as he sat in one of the chairs in front of Picard's desk.

"Deservedly so," Picard said. "He's one of several officers who've proven themselves in recent days."

"You mentioned some personnel issues you wanted to discuss just before this Minos mess began," Riker said.

"Yes, Will, several personnel issues have arisen recently," Picard said. "One of them, as you well know, involves Lt. Yar's desire to obtain advanced medical training. She insists that this would only compliment her current rank as security chief. What's your take on that?"

Will sighed, not sure where to start. He'd known for a long time that Tasha had medical aptitude, and flashed back to several situations on Earth, when she'd developed piecemeal treatments for Will's various injuries and ailments. And then there was the Sora incident after they returned to the _Enterprise_.

"I believe, based on what I know she's capable of doing, it would be wrong of us to stop her from pursuing this training, sir," Will replied. "I believe it will be a good outlet for her."

"Even at the risk of losing her to the medical track," Picard said. "The risk of her abandoning security and tactical."

"She'll never lose that," Will replied. "That constant suspicion, the anticipation of potential problems . . . that's deeply ingrained. That will always be there. But having gotten to know her, especially when we were stranded on Earth, I can advise that Tasha's nature is complicated—in a good way. She's not one-dimensional, and we would be remiss in not encouraging her to learn more."

"I agree, and I have granted that to her," Picard replied, and he nodded in acknowledgement of the grin beginning to spread across Will Riker's face. "She's to begin her studies in several weeks."

Will nodded. "I heard Chuckles Logan gave Geordi LaForge a run for the command you left him when you beamed down to Minos," he said.

Picard raised an eyebrow at Riker's use of Logan's not-so-affectionate nickname. "I think Lt. LaForge more than proved himself, Number One," he said. "I am considering a promotion for him, and I'm also considering offering him more responsibilities in Engineering."

"Is he interested in that transfer?"

"I hadn't asked him directly, just feeling him out," Picard said. "The things I've read and heard about Chief Engineer Logan are . . . disturbing. I find him arrogant, dangerously so. Although his engineering expertise is laudable, his leadership and management qualities are not. The sad part is that he doesn't see it that way. I've had several conversations with him regarding management training courses, and he seemed overly defensive about it. Counselor Troi has expressed concerns about that, and she didn't mince words with me about how glad she was that Geordi didn't cave to his demands. She was on the saucer section with Lt. Logan, and said that although he handled procedural elements to the tee, his thoughts were more concerns about how this incident would make him look, as opposed to where his thoughts should have been: On the crew compliment of the saucer section, and its safety."

"That is disturbing," Will remarked. "Not surprising, though. I'm beginning to wonder whether Logan is a good fit for this senior staff aboard the _Enterprise_."

"My thoughts exactly," Picard said. "I think we should advise him of our concerns, and in the meantime, look within out ranks for a temporary replacement."

"And you believe Geordi LaForge would be a good fit," Will replied, smiling again.

"I know he would," Picard said. "I've always known of his engineering expertise and problem-solving abilities. But until the Minos incident, I hadn't considered that he would be prepared to manage. Counselor Troi said that he would be an outstanding candidate for that position."

"He's young," Will said.

Now Picard smiled. "Ah, we were all young once, Will," he said. "As you reminded me earlier regarding Lt. Yar, how can we deny Lt. LaForge a similar opportunity to grow?"

* * *

**USS **_**Enterprise**_**, the next day, 1145 hours**

Ensign Julio Barajas' shuttle rendezvoused with the _Enterprise_ the day after it warped from the Minos system. He was returning from his solemn delivery of personal effects and remains of three security officers from the USS _Enterprise_, all of whom perished in the line of duty. The majority of the trip had not been a pleasant at all.

He'd stopped at Alpha Centauri with Ramos' belongings, and spent some time with the mother of the first _Enterprise_ officer to die when Klingon prisoners escaped from the brig. Then he traveled to Earth, where he hadn't been since he was a member of the away team that rescued Com. Riker and Lt. Yar from their 21st century time warp. Earth had seemed like a completely different planet during that mission—and it was. The 21st century made Earth seem almost primordial to Barajas, so he was glad to be returning in his own time, though these duties were difficult.

After arriving on Earth with the _Enterprise_'s shuttle, he went to Spain with the remains of his friend and roommate, Criston Escobar, participated in the Catholic Mass of burial at Catedral de Barcelona, and an additional afternoon with Escobar family. They had been so wonderful to him, and for that he was grateful, vowing that he would always stay in touch.

Barajas traveled to Harbin, China to deliver Zhou Liang's belongings to her still-grieving mother and father. Zhou had been their only child. The Harbin region was in the throes of its usual, harsh winter, and the Mexican-born Barajas had never experienced such cold temperatures in his life, though Zhou's parents warmly welcomed their daughter's friend into their home.

He was grateful to see that his itinerary included one day with his own family in Acapulco, Mexico. Thank you, Lt.. Yar, he thought as he saw that she had signed off for him to have a day with his own family. Lt. Yar hadn't been required to grant that, but had obviously thought it would benefit him. That surprise helped ease his stress considerably. He walked along the beaches where he'd grown up, went hiking with his younger sister and discovered that Ariceli had overtaken him in rock climbing skills along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

At one point, his out-of-shape, fatigued fingers to let go of those rocks. He plummeted—completely relaxed—into the sun-warmed, coastal water about 10 meters below where he'd been dangling. He'd grown up diving off those cliffs, and now he felt himself being enveloped, almost reborn, as the salt water rejuvenated him. And suddenly, he wished that Suravi Bhat were there with him, warmed by his home and welcomed by his family. He knew Suravi would feel welcome there, and within a microsecond, he realized something else.

He took leave of his family the next day and as the _Enterprise_'s shuttle arced away from Earth, and his usual bout of homesickness was quelled somewhat by the nervousness experienced by every young man hoping to take another, important step in his life.

* * *

**USS **_**Enterprise**_**, 1430 hours**

During her rounds only a couple of hours after the Earth shuttle's arrival back aboard the _Enterprise_, Tasha stopped by sickbay to see how Beverly Crusher was doing.

For someone who constantly told her patients to take it easy, Dr. Crusher wasn't taking her own advice. She was standing up, giddy, smiling. Tasha knew that the knitter had finished healing all her fractures, so she wasn't surprised to see Beverly standing up. But the jumping up and down part was a complete surprise.

"You just missed the excitement!" Beverly said, as soon as she saw Tasha. Dr. Crusher's face was glowing, her eyes bright. Even other Sickbay workers seemed to have more enthusiasm than usual.

"Good or bad excitement?" Tasha replied.

"Very good excitement," Beverly replied. "You know Julio Barajas just returned from Earth, right? Well, he got off that shuttle and came straight to sickbay to see Suravi Bhat. So he got in here, got down on one knee and asked her to marry him! Right here in Sickbay!"

"And?" Tasha asked, a smile breaking across her face.

"And what?"

"What did she say?"

"She said yes!" Beverly said. "How romantic! Isn't that exciting?"

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41799.6, Will Riker's cabin, 0100 hours**

Even before the Minos incident, Will had been having dreams, flashbacks of the Sora incident. But after Minos, his dreams took on an historical element—somewhat comforting, at first. He dreamt he was on the beach near his home, off Prince William Sound. He could smell the ocean air, feel the wind on his face, hear the waves lapping at the polished-stone beach.

Then he began dreaming of his daughter, conceived during a 21st century fling with a woman he'd met while he was stranded on Earth. He hadn't learned she was pregnant until after his return to the 24th century, and now he remained haunted about a daughter he'd never known. He'd told Tasha about it first, that same night after their rescue, just after he found the record of his alias being listed as her father. The timing was right, and later Deanna had located several photos of the girl. In her school photo, Sarah's resemblance to Will Riker was unmistakable.

Will had discussed her existence with Gary and Kim Tobin, fellow 24th century Starfleet officers who'd also been stranded in the 21st century for more than a decade before happenstance brought them together with Tasha Yar and then Will Riker. Now that the Tobins and their children were back on Earth and getting reacclimated, Gary agreed to help Will search for more information about Sarah and Stephanie. Will knew it might take awhile to get more information, since many digital records from that time were destroyed in World War III. But Gary was certain there would be some paper records, and seemed to know where to start looking.

But Will hadn't heard back from Gary, yet, so his imagination was running away with him.

_An accident? A double homicide? Some disease process? What happened to them_? he thought. He believed that it was likely an accident since both Sarah and her mother died on the same, June day in 2020.

In his dreams, Sarah was maybe 10 or 11, dressed in a plaid skirt and navy sweater bearing her school's logo, and a mock collar peeking out from beneath. Her thick, auburn hair was held back from her face in a ponytail, and her blue eyes were as intense as Will's. He'd seen three, actual photos of her, obtained by Deanna Troi after he finally told her of Sarah's existence. She could find out almost anything about anybody, but wasn't able to learn more about how Sarah had died.

* * *

**Will Riker's cabin, 0300 hours**

He dreamt that he was walking with Sarah on the beach near Valdez, showing her the majesty of his favorite place in the universe.

_"Dad, why are some of the rocks all oily?" she'd asked in his dream. He imagined that she was tall for her age, just as he had been._

_"In the 20th century, there was a big oil spill here," Will explained. "They cleaned up as much as they could, but a lot of it still ended up on the beaches and on the bottom of the sound. It washes up from time to time."_

_Sarah stood up, glanced into the distance. Her face and hair were damp from the misty rain that enveloped Prince William Sound on a frequent basis. "Does it rain a lot, here?"_

_"Sometimes," Will replied. "Depends on the season."_

_"It was raining right before I came here," she said._

_"Raining here, or where you came from?"_

_"Raining in Missouri," she said._

_"Next time I come back, I'll return on a sunny day."_

_She smiled. "The sun's better."_

_"So what was happening right before you came here?" Will asked._

_"School," she said. "We were going home and it was raining. That's the last thing I remember."_

_"And then you were here in Alaska, huh?" he's quipped, waiting for his imagination to put words into the mouth of a little girl he'd never known._

_"I remember lights before," Sarah said._

_"Lights," Will repeated. "Inside lights or outside lights?"_

_"Outside," she said. "They were outside lights."_

_"Like a street light?"_

_Sarah shook her head, then looked into her father's eyes as she replied, "Lights in the windshield of Mom's car."_

Will woke up in a cold sweat. His left leg was aching...it hadn't ached like that since he'd been on Earth, subject to changing barometric pressures that sometimes aggravated injuries he'd incurred as a 2-year-old. He'd been riding in the backseat of his mother's car. There was an accident. Will had been injured, and his mother had died.

He had two memories from that crash: Of being struck in the face by pieces of safety glass, and of pain as he was yanked out of the crushed, burning car by bystanders. He had no recollection of unsuccessful efforts by bystanders to free his trapped mother, or of firefighters who beamed in too late to extinguish the fire.

He remembered being in a yellow hospital room, he remembered going home and finding that everything was different. His mother's belongings were gone, even the items she'd passed along to him, the quilt that covered his bed, a well-worn, stuffed seal toy that had been hers when she was growing up and was now Will's favorite . . . all were gone, placed into storage by his grieving father, who wanted to move on as quickly as possible because he couldn't bear the grief.

_Was it a car accident? Did Sarah and Stephanie die in some stupid, groundcar accident? What sick kind of fate is that?_

Will wondered if he'd ever be able to get into a groundcar, again.

* * *

**USS **_**Enterprise**_**, the next day, 0930 hours**

Even as his duties enveloped him the next day, Will Riker's dreams had been upsetting enough that he still thought about them. He denied it, didn't want to discuss it, even with Deanna Troi—though she dragged the information out of him, anyway.

_How does she do that?_ Will thought. _She looks at me, and I spill EVERYTHING . . ._

"You're dreaming of her, again, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"I feel like she's haunting me," Will admitted softly, as he and Deanna rode together on a lift, toward logistics. "I think all it is, is that I'm waiting for information and in the meantime, my imagination is driving me nuts."

Gary did contact him, sending a subspace message that reached the _Enterprise_ two days later, several days after Will had the dream where he and Sarah were walking in Alaska. An ancient school bulletin and a microfiche copy of a police report detailed an automobile accident that had claimed the lives of two people and injured a third.

The crash, on a county road near where Stephanie had evidently moved in 2018 (according to land ownership records) had involved a semi tractor trailer that crossed the dividing line as Stephanie's car crested a hill just north of Harrisonville, Missouri on June 16, 2020. The semi driver received minor injuries and was transported by ambulance to a local hospital. Both Stephanie and Sarah were pronounced dead at the scene.

* * *

**Will Riker's cabin, 1945 hours**

When Will didn't show up for a martial arts workout he normally attended, Tasha knew where he'd be. He let her into his cabin, and she knew, with one look, that he'd learned what had happened to Sarah. She wrapped herself up in one of the warm throws he kept for visitors to his Alaska-frigid cabin and sat beside him on his couch so he could replay Gary's message.

Tasha didn't try to falsely brighten his outlook, or cheer him up. She knew when he needed to brood, but understood when he was ready to talk, so she stayed. And he had plenty to say.

"You always tell yourself that if you have children, you won't be like those other people who never seem to have time for their kids," he said. "They're too busy working out, or socializing, or working on things. We see that all the time here on the _Enterprise_. Parents get off duty and go pick up their kids from school, and those kids practically are begging their parents to do this and do that with them once they get back to their cabins, and the parents are always saying how tired they are, how they've got other things going on."

She nodded.

"Anyway, I told myself that if I ever had children, I wasn't going to be one of those people. I'd be excited to see my kids. They wouldn't be a side effect, or something to dress up and show off so others would be impressed at how complete I supposedly was. I'd be more focused on their development as people rather than how they developed as scholars. And I wouldn't be like my own dad. I wouldn't compete with them. I'd allow them to catch or lose their own fish. I'd never be disappointed in them or ashamed of them when they were trying their best. I'd be a nurturing father."

Will leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, shaking his head.

"And now that I know I was a father, look what kind of father I turned out to be. A completely absent father."

"You didn't know ," Tasha reminded him.

"If I'd known, I'd have brought her back with me," Will said. "I'd have brought them both back."

"You'd have risked telling Stephanie?"

"Absolutely," he said. "If I'd known, I absolutely would have told her. You risk your life for your family. I don't think I'd have returned if I'd known I was leaving a child behind without trying to bring Sarah and Stephanie with me. Because now that I know, it hasn't been easy. Look what kind of father I turned out to be."

"Will . . ."

He sighed and flopped back against the back of the couch, again.

"I wonder what Stephanie told her about me," he said. "She had to have asked about me. If I'd known, I'd have been there."

"You're remembering her now," she said. "You're collecting as much information about her as you can. She's living on, now."

"Now isn't when would have counted," he replied.

"Maybe not, but how many people who died in the year 2020 have anyone remembering them personally in the year 2364?"

He nodded, even smiled a bit, but said nothing. He'd wanted to tell her that she'd been in some of his dreams, too, but couldn't bring himself to do that to her. She'd mentioned something not long ago, about feeling like her number was coming up, and he'd told her to use that as a conscience warning to be more careful, and then told her to just shake it off. We all have feelings of doom from time to time, Will had told her. It's our conscience reminding us of our eventual mortality.

In Will's most recent dreams, he'd seen his mother, walking along the edges of the beach, where the peat and glacial till were being eroded by the ever-present surf and tides. along the beach. Betty Riker had loved Alaska's unique plant life, and was outside more than she was inside when the weather permitted. He dreamt that she was walking along the beach with Sarah.

And he dreamed that Tasha was there, too, enveloped in a jacket against the chilly, subarctic air, standing on the rocky beach and looking out over the water at a pod of killer whales breaching and playing in Prince William Sound. She was smiling, at ease, comfortable even though she'd never been to Alaska, before. Her presence in his dream didn't seem at all unusual, even after he woke and remembered what - and whom - he had dreamt about. But he didn't say anything to Tasha about that. He didn't want to creep her out.

He was glad that she stayed for two more hours in his cabin that evening, looking at hundreds of pictures he had of Alaska, of his family, of his mother, of her sister Anne who lived in Unalaska in the Aleutian chain, of his deceased grandparents and other family members. He had all these images on a loop on his computer and looked at them often, especially on a night like this one, when they brought comfort to the coldness of space. Tasha found herself genuinely entranced by this special place where her best friend had grown up and still loved.

She had asked if he wanted her to stay, but they'd both agreed that neither of them needed any rumors. So she gave him a quick hug, told him to call her if he needed to talk, even in the middle of the night. He'd nodded and smiled, embracing her back, whispering thanks into her hair.

"What did I ever do, to deserve a good friend like you?" he said.

She shrugged. "Oh, surely nothing that bad," she replied.

He smiled—finally.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said. "Good night."

"Absolutely," he replied.

* * *

**Natasha Yar's cabin, 2215 hours**

Tasha returned to her cabin and found her cat yowling at her, wanting his late dinner. It took all of 45 seconds for KC to snarf down his replicator-formulated feline meal, then he joined her on the window seat of her cabin. She used the cat comb on his long fur while he rolled over gleefully, so intoxicated by the attention that he forgot about how late she returned home. Then she pulled KC onto her lap and held him, rubbing his head while he purred contentedly, bathed in starlight and the affections of the human who'd adopted him.


	13. Chapter 13

_Here's the next chapter. Small warning for some UST. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Future's Present, Chapter 13**

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, Holodeck Four, Stardate 41600.2**

"I like it, already!" Tasha Yar said, a smile spreading across her face as she looked through the Holodeck doors at the computer-generated, green expanse ahead of them. "Did Lt. Kendall load this up?"

"He did," Will Riker replied. "But this is the 24th century version. Kendall's family actually lives near Loose Park, so he grew up playing here."

As the Holodeck doors slid shut and disappeared behind them, they looked around at the computer-generated projections. Even though more than 300 years had passed for the park, they still recognized where they were.

"It doesn't look all that different," Will remarked. "The pond is still here. Looks like they've rebuilt the bridge."

When Will Riker and Natasha Yar were stranded in the 21st century time warp, they learned to appreciate elements of that era that weren't available aboard the _Enterprise_. Although Will had grown up in Alaska and preferred being outdoors, Tasha had spent 10 years of her life in caves snaking below her nuked home city on Turkana IV. She grew to love being outside. She didn't acclimatize well to the Kansas City's cold winters (though Will always looked forward to chilly weather), but she was comfortable in the summers, even on afternoons when the temperature reached 38-degrees Celsius by noon.

Will didn't much care for those hot days. But they both enjoyed going on long walks and jogs for exercise, so they compromised in July and August, and went on morning walks. They walked across the uneven, crumbling sidewalks that led from their apartment and across Westport to the perfectly laid brick sidewalks through the haute Plaza shopping district. They began jogging across Brush Creek to the even smoother, concrete lining sidewalks leading south.

Two blocks south of the Plaza was a large, public park that had jogging trails, a duck pond and a rose garden. Loose Park became one of their favorite places. They spent hours there on their days off, relaxing in the sunshine, watching people. They didn't possess frisbees or horseshoes or any other lawn toy that Kansas Citians seemed to enjoy, but joined plenty of games in progress.

Will mentioned this to Louden Kendall, the history buff whose day job was teaching the _Enterprise_'s elementary and secondary age children. Kendall had made the journey back as part of the away team, partly out of duty but also out of guilt: It had been Kendall's stored Holodeck program that had linked up with the Arbat sector's time warp. His program, developed mostly for his students but also for his son, had sent Riker and Yar back in time to 2007, and back to Kendall's hometown of Kansas City.

The rescue mission had given him an opportunity to see the city where his ancestors had lived—and his family still lived—though so much time had passed that he barely recognized the city when he arrived as part of the rescue mission. But after the officers returned to the 24th century, he'd sat down with both Will Riker and Natasha Yar and compared notes. Some of their favorite places had been the same, and one of those places was Jacob Loose Park.

"The rose gardens are still there," Kendall had said. "My mother used to drag me there when I was little. I wasn't a kid who was into flowers, so I didn't have as much appreciation as she did. But those gardens have been maintained and the arches are all rebuilt, but it's still there."

Will was glad to hear that even 300 years later, something like those rose gardens still existed.

"I was thinking we'd check this program out, and give him some feedback," Will had told Tasha as they walked into the Holodeck. They strode across the grass, noting the people walking past on sidewalks that sloped downhill, the weeping willow trees dripping into the pond. About a dozen ducks and a few swans paddled their way aimlessly through the water.

"Where are the geese?" Tasha asked. She was looking across the water, at the plumy seeds from ever-present cottonwood trees that had clotted along the edges of Loose Park's pond. _Kendall's good,_ she thought. _He nailed this part._

"Wrong time of year for geese," Will said. "This is a June program. The geese would have already migrated."

She nodded. She'd forgotten about that, that the geese weren't there all year. They walked some more, taking it all in, making small adjustments. Kendall had wanted them to do that. He wanted the park to be as accurate as possible.

"When we were stranded in the 21st century, I know I wasn't supposed to have an impact there," she said, seemingly out of the blue as they walked across the mowed grass. "But I want to have mattered. Doesn't that sound selfish? I just want to have mattered in some timeframe, whether it's this one or mine, or maybe another one I don't know about, yet."

"You aren't saying you want to do this again in some other time, are you?"

She glanced at him, and couldn't resist laughing outright. "Are you serious?" she said.

"Things were so much easier when we knew what to expect."

"At least we knew what to expect from one possible future," she said, then tipped her head the side, realizing something else that didn't seem right. "Computer, add a slight breeze to the program, random at 5 kilometers per hour, with gusts at about 10."

As ordered, a breeze ruffled the trees, just as it had in Kansas City when they were there. The city sat on the edge of the Great Plains, where sustained winds were common. In the city, they were more sporadic, but nonetheless refreshing. Tasha's short hair was tousled by the wind, and her expression serene.

Will liked how relaxed Tasha was, even in this artificial environment, with wind tousling her hair around and the "sun" in her eyes, and it was in that instant that Will Riker realized how much he truly cared about Natasha Yar, wanted her to be all right. When they were in Kansas City, she seemed happiest when she was outside in the sunshine. She wasn't outside now – she was aboard a starship, participating in a simulation. But it was close enough for both of them.

Tasha noticed him looking at her, and grinned back. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. _Do you know how beautiful you are when you don't have a care in the universe?_ he thought. "I'm glad to see you smiling again."

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, in the Delos system, Stardate 41601.3, 0850 hours**

Will Riker and Tasha Yar were already irritated at the _Enterprise_'s four rescued guests for having beamed over a crate of cargo instead of seeing to the safety of their own colleagues. Tasha had tried—futilely—to yank them all off their doomed freighter, but the solar flares interfered with the transporter lock, and two of the freighter's passengers were lost as it broke up in the nearby planet's atmosphere. They did manage to save four.

Will was prepared to break that news to all four survivors, but it soon became clear that none of them cared. They only wanted to see their cargo, and once they saw it, they fought over it, zapping each other with natural electrical charges. Tasha had to break up the fight with a zap of her own, from her phaser.

"Do you think our visitors pose a threat?" Will had asked her later, after security forces escorted the Ornarans and Brekkians to separate quarters.

"I don't know, but if they do, I'd better be ready for it," she remarked.

"Precisely, lieutenant," Will said.

"I think they pose more of a threat to each other than to us, at this point," she added.

"That was a good idea, to have them go to their own transporter room," Will said. "We probably would have lost all of them if you hadn't. The Ornarans don't look well. Did the scanners detect anything?"

She shook her head. "They didn't have anything recognizable, but I agree," she replied. "They looked sick."

Later, as Tasha interviewed both the Brekkians and the Ornarans, she had a disquieting feeling about them. It wasn't just about the natural, electrical charge they all carried, or the sickness that Ornarans said they were infected with. This was about their demeanor. She'd only seen that one place before: Turkana.

* * *

**Sickbay, 1030 hours**

Tasha stopped by Sickbay just after Beverly Crusher returned from the bridge. She'd scanned all four passengers but hadn't found any evidence of the plague both Ornarans said they were carrying.

"Dr. Crusher, may I speak with you?"

"Yes," Beverly replied. "I am not one bit happy that our transporter sensors didn't detect this plague that Ornarans claim to have. They're symptomatic, but none of our equipment can pick up anything resembling an infectious disease."

"I don't think they're infected with anything," Tasha said, bluntly. "I think they're in withdrawals."

"Withdrawals from what, lieutenant?"

"Maybe from the medication," she said. "They seemed really anxious to have access to it."

"They were discussing sale terms with the Brekkians," Crusher said. "That's probably why they wanted to inspect it."

"No, this was different," Tasha insisted. "This had nothing to do with a sale. They were acting like addicts who haven't gotten their fix."

"I found no trace of opiates in the medical scan, but I'd need to scan the medication," Crusher said. "This makes no sense, at all."

"It makes perfect sense! They're sweaty, they're twitchy and jumpy, they're irritable . . ," Tasha began.

"Well, a lot of things can cause those physical symptoms," Crusher sighed. "Those could just as easily be symptoms of the plague, and now they've exposed the entire ship to it."

But Beverly quickly changed her tune when she saw the Ornarans dosing themselves with felicium. Almost immediately, their symptoms disappeared in a wave of sedating bliss. They were actually smiling. Tasha had hung around sickbay for that instant, and shot a look in Beverly's direction. See?

Beverly nodded. She might have been a physician, but she had very little experience with drug addiction compared to the ship's security chief. She made a mental note to herself to speak more with Tasha about her experiences, because even though she had become a mentor of sorts to Lt. Yar, she realized there was much that she could learn from her, also. Dr. Crusher hadn't considered drug addiction initially, but Tasha had seen it immediately.

"Well, it takes one to know one," Tasha had remarked when Beverly confirmed her suspicion.

"What do you mean?"

"They're addicts, and I know because I was one," Tasha admitted. "One of the hardest things I've ever done is forcing myself to quit using when I was a teenager. But they've got it much worse. They were born with their addiction and they know no different. Is there anything they can take to help them through withdrawals?"

"I can synthesize something, absolutely," Beverly replied. "All I need is the captain's approval, and I can't imagine that he'd deny it. We can't be complicit in allowing this to continue."

* * *

**On the bridge, 1215 hours**

The Brekkians reminded Saul Minnerly of all the "businesspeople" in the underground smuggling world. They were the bigwigs who occasionally paid his father very well to ship them and contraband cargo anywhere and back. His father rarely asked many questions, and didn't need to. The coldly arrogant and calculating behavior of these passengers gave them away: If a venture was profitable, they didn't care who got in their way.

Minnerly got the same feeling from the Brekkians. They talked a good game and said deliberately flattering things to everyone aboard the _Enterprise. _But both Minnerly and Lt. Yar saw right through it.

"They even act like dealers," he said to Tasha, who had initiated an hourly rotation for any security officer guarding either the Brekkians or Ornarans. She'd spent enough time around the Ornarans and already had a hunch what their problem was, so it didn't surprise her to hear Minnerly's assessment of the others.

"My dad smuggled people and cargo like this all the time," Minnerly explained. "The Brekkians have been talking a lot about their cargo and shipments but didn't say anything about the people lost on the freighter. They remind me of all those fat cats we hauled places. As long as they get their money, they don't care what happens to anyone."

Tasha nodded. "That matches what we're seeing with the Brekkians, definitely," she replied. _Too bad we're bound by the Prime Directive from intervening in this mess,_ she thought.

But none of it made sense to Wesley Crusher, stationed just behind Tactical. He chatted briefly about the lure of drug addiction with Data, who seemed as confused as Wes was. Tasha joined the conversation, feeling comfortable about discussing this with Wesley. He'd fortunately never been in any situations when addictive substances would have been available to him—or tempting to him.

As Tasha spoke matter-of-factly to Wes, she didn't notice the reaction from Minnerly, who was still standing behind her at the ship's comm station. He had paused when he heard her say she was from Turkana IV, and turned slowly around as she described to Acting Ensign Crusher the allure and trap of addictive substances.

Minnerly did the math in his head, and a chill crept over him as he realized something about his commanding officer. He knew she'd had it rough growing up. But until that instant, he didn't know she was from Turkana, a system where his father had often smuggled contraband and people. Smugglers led a dangerous life, but it wasn't nearly as horrendous as what he knew about Turkana IV: The surface was uninhabitable, nuked some 20 years ago, and survivors lived below ground in a cadre-run society that was, as Minnerly's father put it, "purgatory".

He spent the remainder of his shift on autopilot, barely feeling those extra, electrical charges surging through the overloading console from the nearby solar flares. Reports were coming in from all over the ship about similar happenstances, especially in engineering and in areas where large stores of power were concentrated.

* * *

**Sickbay, 1430 hours**

"You all right, sir?" Tasha asked as Beverly Crusher completed her scan of Will Riker, who had just had another brush with death. He was sitting up on a sickbay bed, looking better than he felt. In an act of desperation, one of the Ornarans captured Will in a static hold, threatening to kill him if Captain Picard refused to release the 'medicine' to the Ornarans.

Tasha had been worried when she first heard what had happened, even though she knew he was all right, that Captain Picard had talked T'Jon out of killing him. Then she was furious when she heard _how_ it had happened. Will knew she would be irritated, and now he shrugged, embarrassed, waiting for her inevitable reminder about procedures. She didn't disappoint him.

"You stood within arm's length of a drug addict who was desperate and armed with an damaging ability that you knew about," she remarked. "How did you like it?"

"I figured you'd twist that knife, lieutenant," he muttered.

"You're lucky you aren't dead," Dr. Crusher remarked. "T'Jon could easily have fried every nerve ending you have. And he was desperate enough to get what he wanted."

"I couldn't have moved to stop him," Will replied. "It was as if every muscle I had was seized up. I couldn't even breathe."

"I'm just glad we didn't need to resuscitate you, again," Dr. Crusher remarked, her voice terse. "It's a lot easier to save someone who's been sliced up by an IED than it is to get someone back after an electrocution. Once central nerves are dead, they're dead. They can't be regenerated."

Will looked at Beverly. "You're still mad."

"Not at you, Will," she said. "But I'm mad as hell about the situation. Captain Picard is going to allow the Ornarans to have the felicium, so now the cycle will start all over again. But if it makes you feel any better, I nearly smacked that Brekkian bitch all the way across that guest cabin when she snickered at Picard and I. I think she knew it, too."

"I wish you would have," Tasha said. "I wouldn't have stopped you. At least they aren't getting those warp coils."

"But Picard gave them millions of doses . . ."

"Robbing Peter to pay Paul," Will remarked. "We might be enabling them now, but if they don't wean off these drugs, they won't be cognizant enough to figure out how to repair those ships. Imagine how much farther they'd be, as a society, if they weren't so strung out all the time."

"I don't even want to think about it," Crusher said, shaking her head.

* * *

**1930 hours**

As suspicious as Saul Minnerly was of anyone who could read his mind, he thought briefly about contacting Counselor Deanna Troi for her advice. _Should I speak with Lt. Yar about what I overheard? I didn't know she was from Turkana._ Ultimately, however, he chose to remain quiet.

By the time he realized he DID want to speak with Counselor Troi, he was told she was off the ship, headed once again to the larger of the two conferences she was scheduled to attend for her psychology licensure to be renewed. By the time Minnerly mustered the courage to speak with Deanna, her shuttle already had departed the _Enterprise._

* * *

_**USS Enterprise,**_** Ten Forward lounge, Stardate 41603.2, 1915 hours**

Since Ten Forward wasn't exactly a family establishment, Kristjana Minnerly wasn't often in there. She'd only been inside twice, and both times, it was because she was having a 'girls evening out' with new _Enterprise_ friends while her off-duty husband Saul watched their daughter. But tonight, she was desperate for help, and knew she'd find Commander Will Riker in there. She shyly asked to speak with him in a secluded corner.

"Sir, I'm civilian, and I don't want to violate chain of command," Kristjana said. "But I don't know what else to do. Saul needs to speak with Lt. Yar about what happened on Delos, but he's afraid of offending her. He's having flashbacks about his father's ship, about a bad situation."

"Lt. Yar would be the last person who would be offended if Lt. Minnerly told her about Delos reminding him of a bad situation," Will replied.

"I think the situation is about Lt. Yar," she said, her expression stricken. "He won't tell me more about it. He's . . . and he is not sleeping, he doesn't eat. I know you're her commanding officer, and I may be going all about this wrong, but Counselor Troi is off the ship, and I don't know what else to do."

_Where's Deanna when I need her?_ Will's mind screamed.

* * *

**Hologym 14, 1935 hours**

Will Riker tracked down Saul Minnerly in a predictable location: In the Hologym, taking swings at a punching bag. Riker's brow furrowed, wondering why a great fighter like Minnerly was messing with a static object, but then realized he was just going through the motions to stay in shape. A simulated opponent might have gotten him hurt when he was as tired as he was. And he looked it.

After sitting down with a visibly exhausted Saul Minnerly 10 minutes later—and hearing Minnerly's story, Will was glad that he was the one from whom Kristjana had sought counsel. Better than anyone else aboard the ship, Will Riker knew both sides of Natasha Yar's story.

Beginning while they were stranded together in the past, Will and Tasha had shared many stories from their respective lives, and consequently, they knew a lot about each other. Will knew details of Turkana that weren't part of official record, and when he heard what Minnerly reported, and knew that Tasha needed to be aware of this.

"Sit down with her, let her know," Will replied. "I guarantee, she'll be more offended if you didn't speak with her about this. But whatever you do, don't apologize. You have no more business apologizing for that than she does for being born and raised there."

"I was just promoted on her recommendation," he said.

"Yes, you were," Riker said. "And that won't change. She needs to know what you just told me, and you need her to know. You need to have this off your chest or it's going to affect your performance. You need to sleep. And chances are, you might be able to answer each other's questions."

* * *

**C-Deck auxiliary conference room, 2000 hours**

Even after all the time she'd spent with Will Riker, there were occasions when even Natasha Yar couldn't read his expression. Will had an enviable ability to wipe his face clean of perceptible emotion, and it had won him plenty of poker matches. When he asked her to rendezvous in the conference room on C Deck for a meeting with Lt. Saul Minnerly, she had no idea what it might be about . . . and still couldn't tell from Will's serious expression when she walked into the room.

She frowned at Minnerly, because it was obvious to her that he knew something she didn't, and it was eating him up. All three officers sat down at one of the smaller, round tables on the periphery of the room.

"When I was at Bridge Comm during our time in the Delos system . . . you mentioned to Wesley Crusher that you were from Turkana IV," Minnerly began. " You were honest with him, told him how it was. And he needed to hear it, because a smart kid is often naive about things like that."

She nodded. "If Wes ever gets caught experimenting, his mother will kick his ass," she replied. "And then I'll kick his ass."

He took a deep breath. "I haven't been honest with you," he finally said.

Her brow furrowed. "About what?" Her first impression was that Minnerly was using drugs, himself. That had been what she and Wesley had been discussing, wasn't it?

"Are you using?" she asked, point-blank.

He flushed. "No," he replied, quickly and honestly. "No, I haven't used since I was a teenager and I hated coming down off it, so I stopped."

"I believe you," she nodded, and she did. Something else was happening, here. "What's going on?"

Minnerly glanced at Com. Riker, whose expression was not helpful to Tasha, at all. _Goddammit, Will, give me a sign, here!_ she thought, shooting him an unmistakable look, hoping for a hint. _Lose your poker face for just a split second._ She wondered how much Will actually knew, and then it occurred to her that Minnerly might be reluctant to discuss this in front of the First Officer.

She held her hands up. "Saul," she said, finally looking him straight in the eye. "Will Riker knows everything about me. Just spill it, all right?"

"I didn't know until Delos that you were from Turkana," he said. "And the truth is that I've been there, I don't know how many times, aboard my father's ship when I was a kid. He ran drugs and liquor, whatever was on the market. It was just another stop."

"Were you ever on the planet?" she asked, growing numb, not expecting the word "Turkana" or any variant to be part of this discussion. Although she'd never hidden the general elements of her past from anyone, the thought that any of her officers might know the grittier details of her past was a little disconcerting. Saul Minnerly wasn't the type to gossip, however, and she could tell that he was troubled—almost embarrassed—to be saying anything.

"No," he replied, shaking his head emphatically, and Tasha didn't doubt him. Although she couldn't read Will Riker's stoic expression, she could read Saul Minnerly instantly. He seemed haunted by this. "I was probably 8 or 9. My dad would never let me go down there, and he didn't waste time getting back, either. He left the bulk in orbit and took the shuttle planetside and was always back within 15 minutes. We always bugged out of orbit as fast as we could."

"How many times?"

"I don't remember," Minnerly said, glancing away, shaking his head. "Maybe a dozen times, and then we heard that another shuttle got ambushed trying to drop and pick up. We never went back after that."

"What was your return cargo?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

_He's stalling,_ she thought. "You know what I mean," she replied. "No one drops narcs and leaves without goods in trade, and since Turkana had no currently system, I'm curious what you took in trade."

"People," he replied, looking her in the eye. "There were always people on the planet who wanted to leave. Dad picked up anyone who made it to the surface, and then he sold them at the Starbase's underground to the highest bidder, like they were a fucking herd of cattle at the auction house. At the time I didn't know how horrible that was, but now, it's just . . . the worst thing to think about, having been involved with that—."

Tasha was silent, her mind racing.

"You were a kid," Will interjected, not just to cut the uncomfortable silence. "You didn't have a choice."

"I still don't get too freaked out about the drugs or the Romulan ale," he said. "When we were running weapons we were in situations that were a hell of a lot more dangerous than when we were running narcs, and narcs didn't pay as well. But I knew Turkana was more dangerous than other narc drops because my dad never would let me go down there. He let me go other places, but never there. And he never would let me see the people he picked up because he was afraid of the radiation they might have. They all stayed in the cargo hold."

Tasha finally said something, softly, as if to answer her own question. "Was it the _Eilish_?"

Minnerly's head jerked back, slightly to the right, as soon as she uttered the name of his father's smuggling ship. Then he nodded, and just as suddenly began trying to stand up.

"Sit down," Will began. And it dawned on him, even before she needed to say it, that Tasha Yar had been one of those people smuggled off the planet by Saul Minnerly's father.

"I didn't want to lay any of this shit on you—," Minnerly began, his hands clasped around the back of his neck, even as he sank back onto the chair. "Oh my God . . ." He couldn't look up, even when she heard Lt. Yar say his first name.

"Saul," she said. "Your dad saved my life."

"He sold human beings!" he exclaimed. "Most things don't bother me, but that always has, that Dad did that. And the other day when you said you were from Turkana, I figured it out. I knew you probably were one of them. It made me sick."

_Now I know why he hasn't slept for three days,_ Will thought.

"Ever ask him about his buyers?" Tasha asked.

Minnerly shook his head. "He sold to anyone who'd pay him a good price," he replied. "Usually the same people who weren't wishy-washy, only the ones he knew and trusted not to rat him out."

"The person who 'bought' me was a Federation operative," she said. "He was underground, paying 10 times what others were paying so we could be repatriated. Maybe he knew that."

Minnerly shrugged. "I don't know," he replied, after a few seconds.

"Look, I know you saw some down low things," Tasha began. "I get that. I came from that, so we both know how that universe turns. And frankly, I'm relieved to know this, and I'm glad you told me. You mentioned your dad stopped doing Turkana drops after hearing about another shuttle that didn't make it out. Do you remember how long after your last trip?"

"Uh, yeah, I remember that," he replied. "It wasn't long. We both heard about it at the Starbase, maybe a week after we'd sold from our last trip to Turkana. Why?"

Tasha let out a deep breath she'd taken as he was stammering through his response.

"I'm 99 percent positive that my little sister was the one who ordered the hit on that last shuttle you heard about, and the others after that," she admitted. "She's . . . Ishara was a piece of work. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think of those people who didn't make it because my sister knew I wanted to leave, and wanted me dead. I still wonder who else could have escaped."

He shook his head. "Holy shit," he muttered.

To Will's complete surprise, he saw a slight grin breaking through Tasha's face even as she stared at the table, again.

"You know what I remember most about the _Eilish_?" Tasha said, looking at Minnerly. "It was cold, so I was wrapped up in a blanket. I heard breathing in front of me, so I peeked out, and there was a huge, wet nose. There were no dogs on Turkana, so I didn't know what they were, at first."

"Red collar?" Minnerly asked. "German Shepherd?"

"Yes!" Tasha practically exclaimed. "At the time I didn't know it was a German Shepard, but it started licking my face—,"

"That was Hans," Minnerly said, a smile finally breaking through. "He was my dog!"

All at once, Natasha Yar and Saul Minnerly exhaled with smiles of relief. Even Will Riker, who hadn't seen any of those places but felt like he knew them because he knew Tasha so well, found himself laughing with them at the nerve-laden reunion of sorts.

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_** corridors, 2045 hours**

"Dr. Crusher said it was a physical addiction and that withdrawals are painful," Will remarked. They'd just excused Saul Minnerly to his cabin, and both Will and Tasha hoped he would actually sleep that night, instead of being haunted awake.

Now they walked together through the _Enterprise_ corridors, not really having a direction, though they were heading in the direction of the senior staff cabins.

"Oh, yeah, absolutely," Tasha replied to Will's remark. "Just imagine having 10,000 baby spiders crawling under your skin and biting you at the same time."

Will stopped midstride and stared at her, his expression a mixture of disgust and terror.

"Did you need to make them spiders?" he asked, a genuine chill going through him.

"That's what it feels like," she replied, well aware of Will's revulsion of spiders. "Anyway, just imagine that they're under your skin, tugging on your muscles, making your eyes twitch—,"

"Stop!"

"—stabbing you throughout your digestive tract so you won't be able to hold anything in, from either end," she kept right on going, a slight grin emerging. "It goes on for days, or until you get your next hit. It's awful. You feel like you're dying, and you wish you could. I wouldn't wish it that on anybody."

"And you went through this how many times?"

"I don't remember exactly how many times," she replied. "It never got easier."

"Even if you knew what coming down would feel like, you still started using, again," Will remarked. "I don't get that. How come you started up, again?"

"Because in that environment, feeling good—even if it was just for a little bit—was good enough," she said. "And I finally decided that if I wanted to live, I needed to be clean. But it wasn't easy."

"I could have done without the spiders."

"I knew that would get your attention," she smiled.

"We know each other too well," he laughed.

"Yes, we do," she agreed.

"Not that it's a bad thing," he added.

"I don't think it's a bad thing," she said.

"That's good," he replied. "I don't think it is, either."

* * *

**Natasha Yar's cabin, 2050 hours**

"So, you start this didactic portion when?" Will asked, glancing around to see where Tasha's cat had disappeared to, and found KC glaring at him from beneath the coffee table. Tasha was about to begin a rigorous, advanced medical curriculum so she could render that type of aid in the field.

"Six days after the martial arts competition," Tasha replied, unhooking her phaser and storing it in the charger unit near the door to her bedroom. "That's about how much time I'll need to recover after Saul Minnerly kicks my ass."

"You're evenly matched," Riker replied. "You've still got a fair chance."

"Have you ever sparred against Minnerly? He holds the highest rating possible in that discipline. He even beat Worf."

"Wait, Worf lost to Minnerly?"

"Twice," Tasha replied. "Worf will never admit it. I think that's the reason he was hesitant to enter the contest. He said he was afraid he'd hurt someone, but I think he's afraid he might lose and feel humiliated. Have you entered?"

"No way," he shook his head. "I've already spent too much time in sickbay."

"You'll do fine," she said.

"The only person I'd want to fight would be Logan," he muttered. "I'm tired of fielding complaints about him."

"He's on everyone's shit list, I think" Tasha replied. "So it won't matter who draws him. Someone will take care of him, and then he'll be sickbay's problem."

"Beverly Crusher won't appreciate that," he said.

"No, she won't," Tasha nodded. "Logan creeps her out. He creeps me out, too."

"You could break his kneecaps during the competition," Will joked.

"Those are patellas," she replied.

"His what?"

"The proper anatomical term for a "kneecap" is the patella," she said.

"You're been reading ahead," he said.

"Not really," she said, shaking her head even as she smiled.

"You are so busted, Tash," he said, playfully jostling her shoulder. "You're really looking forward to this AP medical training."

She glanced at him, then looked down and nodded, still smiling. "Yeah, I am," she admitted.

"That's good," he said. "I'm glad you're looking forward to it."

Tasha looked up at him again, her smile softening. Since their time on Earth, they'd always been able to read each other with a single glance. At the same time, they flashed back to that instant in Kansas City, seconds after they learned that the _Enterprise_ had found them, and that they'd finally be rescued after more than 20 months. They'd been standing on the edge of a muddy, football field and shared the same, wordless communication with their eyes that they did now, knowing that their situation was about to change.

He'd embraced her then, and pulled her close now, as the enormity of everything hit both of them at once. But now, they didn't need to worry about a clueless audience of fellow, flag football players wondering what was going on. They were alone in her cabin, in their own time.

"Thank you," she said against his shoulder.

"I'll miss you around here, while you're off fixing people," he said into her hair. "Really."

"Won't be for awhile," she replied, as he moved away so he could look at her. "I've got to pass didactic, first."

"I'll start missing you, then," he said, allowing his forehead to touch hers. "You're going to be _great_ at field medical, you know that?"

"I hope so," she said, looking at him. His eyes were only inches away.

"I know so," he replied, whispering as he leaned in to kiss her.

She wasn't surprised by this, at all. She welcomed it, kissing him back, not rushed, opening her mouth to his as he pulled her closer. In their minds, they both wanted this. But something else told them otherwise, even as their arms slipped further around each other. And they both flashed back again, knowing they weren't on a street corner like they had been the first—and only—time this had happened before, and it was when they were stranded on Earth. That kiss hadn't led to anything else except a long talk, and somehow, they both sensed that this kiss would lead to . . . the same thing.

They both withdrew at the same time, suddenly holding each other at arm's length, looking into each other's eyes before bursting into nervous laughter.

"_What_ is going on?" she said.

"I don't know—," he stammered. "I'm attracted to you, but I feel like I'm kissing my sister."

"Yes! Like a sexual relationship is just . . . wrong for us, you know?" she agreed.

"Ever _thought_ about taking things for a test drive?" he asked, his arms folding around her shoulders.

"A what?"

"Immanuel's term," he said, referring to the ultra-honest, head cook at the jazz club where he'd worked while they were stranded in the past. Immanuel called it like he saw it. They both missed his friendly jabs and good advice.

"A test drive," she said. "You mean, 'let's see how it goes'."

"Yeah, that," he replied. "You've never thought about it?"

She shrugged, even as her arms loosely embraced him back, and smiled up at him. "You are a great kisser," she said. "No wonder you get all the hot women."

"So, you have thought about it," he replied.

She shrugged. "Yeah," she admitted. "But there's no going back, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"And I don't want a fling with you to get in the way of you and Deanna getting back together."

Will rolled his eyes and he moved to her side, nudging her to sit down next to him on the couch.

"What is it with you, always trying to set us up?" he asked. "Deanna and I won't be getting back together. We've already agreed that it's best to remain on professional terms to avoid any issues. Our romantic relationship is . . . finished."

"You aren't finished," Tasha remarked, still not giving up.

"How do you know that?" he said. "You just seem so sure of that, even though Deanna and I are certain it'll never happen."

"Just a feeling," she said. "But speaking of issues, right before she left for her conference, Deanna told me she felt like there was something unresolved between us."

"The three of us, or you and I?"

"The latter," she replied.

"Like what?" Will asked. "The unresolved sexual tension we've just discussed, again . . . and decided against dousing, again? Surely she doesn't think that we should just go for it."

"She knows we aren't," Tasha said. "But she was still uneasy that you told me about Sarah before you told her about Sarah, or something like that. She sounded a little jealous, actually. And that's the LAST thing I wanted to happen."

"I'll tell you something about Sarah," Will said. "I shut my best friend out of the apartment for some of the BEST sex I've ever had—and based on when Sarah was born, that's probably when she was conceived."

"In our apartment."

"Yes, in our apartment, while you were slogging back to the 43rd with vomit in your shoes."

"How'd you know I had vomit in my shoes?" she asked, smiling. "You barely opened the door!"

"It was an unforgettable evening on many levels."

"Yes, it was," she said.

"Deanna was right, though," Will said.

"She's right about a lot of things."

"She was specifically right that coming back did complicate some things between us," Will said. "It's a cycle, you know? We'll always have this bond. It's a cycle of ups and downs. We'll always be friends even when we're hacked off at each other. And we'll get attracted to each other every once in a while and consider taking that next step, but we'll never act on it."

"It would probably be pretty intense if it did happen," she remarked. "And then I wouldn't be able to look you in the face for the next three weeks."

"That would be a problem."

"Yes, it would," she said, laughing at the potential of post-sex discomfort that would result if she and Will actually embarked on a physical relationship. "After all the time we spent convincing Captain Picard that we weren't sleeping together, you think he'd know if we actually went for it?"

"He'd know," Will replied.

"I wonder why he seems so threatened by that," she remarked.

"By friendships or by sexual relationships?"

"Both, I think," she said.

"Familiarity," Will said. "When he took command of the _Enterprise_, he'd never had families aboard, before. Remember our first staff meeting after Farpoint?"

Tasha nodded. "Yeah, I do," she whispered. Picard hadn't minced words about how uncomfortable he was with taking 200 civilians—especially children—into potentially hostile situations, and that _Enterprise_ officers not only needed to look out for themselves, but for their "precious cargo" as well. She suspected that Picard regretted his 'cargo' remark, but hadn't discussed it with him.

Will knew that he did regret it, but wasn't about to discuss that with anyone but the captain, even with Natasha Yar. But she understood that as first officer, there were plenty of things Will couldn't discuss with her. So she just never asked.

"So, if we're on a 20-year mission, surely you aren't going to spend 20 years holding Deanna at arms length," she remarked.

_She's not letting this go,_ he thought. So he changed the subject . . . sort of. "Anyone who settles down with you, or with me, might have a hard time understanding us," he said.

"Guess we'll have to choose wisely, then," Tasha remarked.

He shrugged, wondering when she was going to drop his non-romance with Deanna, and then said, "I think Geordi likes you."

"There you go again, changing the subject," she began, then it hit her what he'd just said. "Geordi . . . LaForge? That Geordi?"

"There are no other Geordis on the ship," Will replied. "Anyway . . ."

She looked at the table. "I think Geordi's even more shy about that than I am."

"He is. But he likes you," Will prompted. "So, have dinner with him some evening."

She smiled, then began laughing outright. "I think he's still a little embarrassed."

"What could Geordi be embarrassed about?"

"That's who I got the _Tsiolkovsky_ virus from."

"What, from Geordi?" Will said. "I figured you got it from someone else."

She shook her head. "No, I found him in the conference room," she said. "He'd walked out of sickbay—left his combadge behind, so he wasn't that far gone, yet. I found him in the E-Deck conference room. Anyway, when he was speaking with me about wanting normal vision, he reached out and touched my face."

Will's mouth fell open. "You mean, he's felt this way about you since way back then?" he said.

"I don't know if he STILL feels that way," she said.

"He does," he said.

"How do you know this?"

"I've seen the way he looks at you from time to time, I remember how he spoke about you when Q gave him temporary sight, remember that?"

She flushed, remembering how embarrassed she'd been at the time to have been called 'beautiful' by anyone.

"How do you feel about him?" Will pressed.

She looked down at the table, even as she raised her eyebrows and grinned.

"You like him!" Will said. "You're even blushing! So why aren't you doing anything about this? He's a nice guy, he likes you, you like him . . . what's the holdup?"

"It's . . . just like we were saying earlier," she said. "There's no going back. How do you sleep with someone and risk that it'll mess up a friendship, and if it goes bad, it'll mess up your work environment. It's just not worth it."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained,"

"Easy for you to say," Tasha glanced wryly back at him. "You've ventured quite a bit."

They had missed these times, relaxing as Will and Tasha, as opposed to their formal, on-duty personas.

"So, what happened to that lieutenant commander in bioengineering?" she asked.

He stared at her, somewhat embarrassed because he hadn't thought Tasha knew about her. Will and Lt. Com. Chouinard had gone out—once—about one week after Will was injured on Sora. "How'd you know about her?"

"I know about all of them, Will," she replied, matter-of-factly.

"We only went out on one date and it was . . . she spent the whole time talking about her ex-husband."

Tasha made a face. "Oh, that's not good."

"No, it wasn't," he replied. "You didn't tell me how you knew I was seeing her."

"A little bird told me."

Will raised his eyebrows. "Does that little bird have a name?"

"No, sir," she replied. "Socially informative little birds do not have names. They just appear at opportune times because they know it's my job to know these things."

He nodded, waited a couple of seconds, then dropped his own information. "Just so you know, that same bird shares information with lots of other people, and it told me about you and Gambetto in Shuttlebay Four."

She looked at him again, somewhat startled, already flushing, completely busted. She took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. "Before I comment, I want to know what you heard."

"It wasn't what I heard," Will said, a smile creeping across his face. "It was what those in Logistics heard."

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, though she could feel her involuntary blush spreading to her neck. She knew exactly what he meant.

"I learned this lesson, too, aboard the _Pegasus_," he said. "As your de-facto big brother, I must pass on this wisdom: If you're going to have a quickie in a parked shuttlecraft, shut and seal the hatch, otherwise it'll echo all over the shuttle bay, which is connected to Logistics."

"That was a _Tsiolkovsky_ thing . . ." she began.

"I thought Data was your _Tsiolkovsky_ thing," Will replied. "You must be insatiable!"

"Who in logistics spilled this private information?" she practically sputtered.

"Little birds don't have names, remember?"

She sighed, resigned.

"Shut the hatch, next time," he said.

"So, you got busted on the _Pegasus . . _." Tasha began, hoping he'd deviate from her embarrassing situation by bragging about his own.

"By my captain."

She winced.

"Airlocks are also a bad place," he continued. "They echo, and there's always the remote possibility that you'll get blown out the airlock in the middle of a good time."

"What a way to go, huh?" she said, laughing.

* * *

As they were chatting, Tasha remembered the photos she'd meant to show him the next time he stopped by. She had five photos of her family, given to her by Rustam Ilienko. He'd been an offworld news correspondent living on Turkana before the revolt, and had worked with both of Tasha's parents. After Tasha arrived on Earth at age 15, Ilienko gave her those photos so she'd have some record of her long-dead family.

Will and Tasha sat side-by-side on the couch as Tasha called up the photos to be projected on the computer.

"That's my father," she said, nodding toward an official, identification photo of a man who looked to be in his 20s. Taras Yar was blond and fair-skinned, and Tasha had his aquamarine eyes. "I've stared at this picture for hours ever since Rustam gave it to me after I got to Earth, but I still don't remember him."

She pushed the 'advance' button, nodding at the second photo of a young woman and two, small children. "This is my mother, and Alek, and me," she said. "I was probably 2. Rustam said he took this after my father was killed."

Tasha looked so much like her mother: Olesya Yar had darker hair and sky blue eyes, but an identical intensity that Will had seen so often from Tasha—especially when Tasha was hell-bent on getting her way. Alek and Tasha looked remarkably alike when they were children, with the same, light-blond hair.

She tapped the 'advance', and another photo of many people, all of them dressed up and standing in front of a building, looking toward the photographer.

"This was taken several months before the Revolt. Rustam said there was a wedding, and he wanted a picture of everyone standing outside."

Will stared at the photo, realizing something else about the building.

"Is that the church?"

She nodded.

"The same church."

"Yeah," she whispered. She didn't like thinking about what happened to her extended family. A cadre that had been losing its battle for that territory had forced citizens inside that church building, the largest in the area. Several hundred people were locked inside the building when the cadres set it on fire, killing everyone inside. Less than 12 hours later, Turkana City was nuked . . . one of eight nuclear detonations that occurred when rival cadres took over government-run munitions.

Will looked at the photo, and counted at least 75 people huddled together along the front steps of that church during a happier time, and swallowed hard. He located a familiar face—Olesya Yar—standing on the fringes of the group, holding a baby and flanked by two blond children. Her expression still bore its underlying, no-bullshit cynicism, but she had a slight smile on her face, perhaps caught up in the wedding celebration.

She nodded. "She's holding Ishara. And that's me, and Alek," she said, pointing toward an intense-looking boy of about 7, and a young girl half-hiding behind him. She looked to be about 4 years old, smiling but shy, her long blonde hair pulled back from her face, seeming self-conscious about having been made to wear a dress by her mother.

"And that's you."

She nodded. "That was me," she said, softly, though she barely recognized herself. "And this was my grandmother. And my aunts are here, and here . . .there are so many faces that I remember, but I don't remember their names. Rustam labeled as many pictures as he could."

"Are these cousins?"

"Yeah, they are," she replied. "I had lots of cousins. And they were all much better behaved than my brother and I were. Realistically, though, that's probably why they died. They did as they were told and never got into trouble, and went into that church like they were supposed to, and probably never knew that they were being herded in there so they could more easily be done away with. Alek and I were just . . . all over the place. He never took any shit off anyone. Look where that got him."

"His sister survived because of it," Will remarked. "Wasn't he looking for food when he was killed?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I think so," she replied. "He could have run from the gang. That's what I don't understand. He was such a fast runner and he probably could have outrun them. I never knew why he didn't. The only thing I can imagine is that he stood up to them. I'd seen him do that, before. He told them how it was going to be, and they killed him for it."

Will remained silent, just listening.

"Turkana didn't leave me with a stronger stomach," she finally remarked. "I didn't tell Minnerly, but I dry-heaved all the way up in that shuttle. I was so sick. We landed on the larger ship, and I wasn't nauseated anymore, but I wasn't used to how cold it is in space, because it was always warm on Turkana. Someone gave me a blanket, I curled up in the corner of what probably was the cargo hold. Someone gave me a bowl of noodles, which I'd never seen before and no idea about the cutlery, either, so I just ate them with my hands. I didn't know how to eat with utensils until I came to Earth. So much for culture."

"Do noodles taste any different when they're eaten with your hands?" Will asked.

She smiled a bit. "Not really," she replied.

"Then, what was the problem?" he quipped. _How like Will, to make a joke so I'd feel better,_ she thought. She had sat back against the couch, her eyes remained directed in front of her, even if they were focused at something else inward.

"You've got that look on your face," he said, relaxing back beside her, his head turned toward her.

"What look?" she asked, glancing at him.

"The look when you want to tell me something but you aren't sure what to say."

"Just the same dream, over and over," she admitted, shrugging a bit, looking again at the window in front of them.

"What was it?"

"Didn't make sense," she replied.

"But you keep having the same dream."

"Yeah," she said.

"About what?"

"Alek."

"And?"

"We were in the catacombs, and he'd gone ahead. He stopped at a corner, turned and looked at me, and then he went around the other side. By the time I got there, I couldn't see him, anymore. But I knew he'd be waiting for me to follow him. So I turned that corner, and that's when the alarm in my cabin always goes off, when I'm trying to find my brother in the dark."

Neither of them said much else. Will resisted the urge to slip one arm around her shoulder and give her a gentle squeeze. He figured he'd have other opportunities to casually embrace her, occasionally tease her, play that big brother role he'd grown to enjoy. So they relaxed back against the couch, just friends sitting side-by-side talking and looking out the window into the infinite darkness of space, lit only by faraway stars that appeared and were gone as fast as the ship warped past them.


	14. Chapter 14

_Hankie-alert: Spoilers for "Skin of Evil" ahead . . ._

* * *

**Future's Present, Chapter 14 **

* * *

_**USS Enterprise,**_** Stardate 41697.9**

Someone had left Natasha Yar's uniform boots on the small table inside her cabin's door. _Probably one of her own security officers,_ Will Riker mused, stepping inside. Normally, items that had been worn by a deceased crewmember were left on that person's bunk. The uniform would have been recycled, but things like boots and jewelry would have been brought to the cabin for commanding officers to pack up and return to the officer's family.

Will didn't blame the uniform bearer for barely stepping into Tasha's cabin. He wasn't sure he wanted to be here, either. The cabin seemed haunted, and for all he knew, it was. Will was still too numb from everything that had happened to feel much beyond a heartsick ache in his chest. His arms and legs felt disconnected, just making the motions.

As the _Enterprise_'s first officer, it was Commander Riker's duty to clean out the belongings of departmental supervisors and return them to their families. But Tasha's family was here on the _Enterprise._ And she didn't have many possessions.

Her cat, KC, emerged briefly from her bedroom. Having seen that his beloved caretaker wasn't there, he darted back into the bedroom.

But for Will, the unbearable must be borne.

_This wasn't supposed to happen,_ he thought, sinking absent-mindedly to sit on the couch. He had no idea what to do next, if anything. It didn't feel right for him to be in her cabin without her being there too, teasing him about something or just talking for hours. She'd left a cup of half-full coffee on the table, which wasn't at all surprising to Will. Her computer notepad also lay haphazardly on the coffee table, as if Tasha would be darting inside any second to retrieve it.

_This was so pointless! _Will's mind practically screamed, his head throbbing, his heart constricted._ There were so many things she didn't get to finish, that WE didn't get to finish._

* * *

**On Vagra, earlier that day, 0930 hours**

Will had spent those first, staggering hours trying NOT to flash back to the image of Natasha Yar lying motionless on Vagra's sand. But of course, that was all he thought about. He had sprinted toward her, had followed his training and knelt beside her, held her head still in case she had a neck fracture. She'd been thrown a long way and he figured that since she'd rolled hard she was bound to have injured herself.

His first hope was that she hadn't broken her neck when she rolled across the ground. He'd seen her arm reaching out—weakly— in that last-ditch, protective maneuver she'd reinforced in Aikido training aboard the ship, before any of this off-ship reality struck. _Shoulder rolls will save any hard fall that you need to roll out of,_ she'd said. _Get your arm out, duck your heads, roll out of it, get right back up to your feet. _But she hadn't gotten back up. She'd skidded to a stop on her back and didn't move.

Will held her head still, believing that she'd begin to stir, that he'd need to remind her to lie still. But she didn't move. _She's knocked out,_ he thought, and noticed the dark blotch on the left side of her face. It looked . . . _burned_.

Then he felt something invade his action-juiced mind . . . a sense of peaceful resignation, unquestionably present for several seconds, then suddenly gone, replaced by Will's own, conscious feeling of doom.

* * *

**In Sickbay, 0952 hours**

After Tasha was brought to Sickbay, Will's first recollection was that cruel, 'there's hope' trick played by the computers, which began beeping that her heart and lungs were functioning again. Then Beverly Crusher told everyone that Tasha had no independent brain function.

Will already knew that. He had backed away until his shoulder touched the bulkhead behind him. The cold chill of inevitability washed over him as Picard turned away from the resuscitation team, now facing in Will's direction but looking past him, already calculating (as any captain would) his next, tactical move. Picard's expression was stoic. He'd seen death too many times before to not know how this was likely to end, even before Beverly's voice began shaking as she made the official pronouncement of Tasha's death, then gently rested her hand on Tasha's forehead.

Will numbly walked to the biobed where Tasha lay motionless. Life support had been shut off, and a bluish gray pallor overtook her face within 30 seconds. An icy horror overtook him as he visualized what his numb mind had just confronted, that Tasha's face was blue because her heart wasn't pumping blood to it, that she really was dead. He was suddenly glad that Beverly Crusher had swept her hand over Tasha's eyes to make sure they were closed. The sight of his friend's glassy, unfocused eyes would have been more than Will could have taken, even then.

When Will had approached the bed, Beverly had disappeared into her darkened office, standing with her back to everyone, her shoulders slumped and shaking in defeat while she summoned every bit of strength she could, mostly because there were other crew members still stranded-and injured-on Vagra. Losing a patient never got easier, and became agonizing when that patient was a friend. Later, Will wondered why Jean-Luc Picard didn't offer some gesture of comfort to Dr. Crusher. But he knew Picard well enough by then to understand that the captain wasn't thinking on those terms. He was triaging the situation, sorting the salvageable from those who couldn't be saved.

"Commander," Picard said.

"Yes, sir," Will had replied, looking again at Tasha, feeling as if his own face were as pale as hers now was.

"Have the remaining senior staff report to my ready room in five minutes," Picard said, then added, "Walk with me."

Will nodded, then leaned forward and gently kissed Tasha's forehead. _She's still warm,_ he thought.

A figure moved to stand on the other side of the biobed, and as Will looked up, he expected to see Picard's scowling face. But the figure was smaller, petite. Suravi Bhat stood quietly with a stasis cover draped over her arms. Her dark eyes were brimming with tears.

"Commander Riker," Picard said, then softened his usual, abrupt tone. "Natasha would not want us to mourn when there are people we must save."

Deanna and the shuttle's injured pilot were the only motivating factors behind his return to the planet where Will's best friend had been killed. Otherwise, he'd have wanted to blow the entire planet out of the universe.

* * *

**In Sickbay, 1130 hours**

So Will returned to Vagra to bargain for the shuttle's survivors. Just as suddenly as Armus had attacked Tasha, the entity seized Will Riker's foot and dragged him through the sand. The reactionary surge of adrenalin sliced through his fresh grief and he yelled, clawed, tried to wiggle his foot out of his boot, but to no avail. He could feel thickened liquid seeping through his uniform pants, then his entire body was swallowed.

He remembered nothing of his captivity within Armus, only that he felt as if he were smothering, then nothing. He felt the same way he had when he'd been beamed up from Sora, only that time, his lungs were filled with blood and he was dying in Tasha's arms. He still remembered her arms holding him up, her eyes looking down at him. After Armus spat Will back onto the sand minutes later, he tried to open his eyes, hoping it had all been an awful dream and that he'd look up to see Tasha beside him again.

But his eyes were glazed with goo from Armus, and the transporter yanked him away before he had the chance to try taking a breath. Even before the beam deposited him in Sickbay's decontamination room, he was choking on viscous, thick fluid that had also gooped his eyes shut. He heard Diego Martinez shouting something, felt hands on his back as he rolled over onto the deck and he promptly vomited every evil, seeping molecule he'd ingested while he was enveloped by Armus. It was rotten and foul, tasting as bad coming up as it had when he was choking it into his lungs.

_He needs pulmonary bypass!_ Martinez shouted. Since he had a decon suit on, he was the only one allowed into the decon unit, and what he said sent everyone in sickbay into a flurry of activity. Though Will could breathe and the air was reaching the deepest recesses of his lungs, he was suffocating because the oil was blocking oxygen transfer to his blood. Within 30 seconds, Martinez was readying the bypass unit, and one after that, Beverly Crusher had donned her own decon suit and had stepped in to initiate the bypass.

Will still was conscious - barely, sitting up in the decon shower with oil still smeared all over him, taking deep breaths that went nowhere. Beverly didn't waste time waving a machine at him to detect he was in worsening shape: The insides of his lips were turning blue and his respiratory rate was increasing. She administered a quick hypospray of local anesthetic, then unzipped his oily uniform and slid her hands along the middle of his chest, looking for landmarks for the infuser.

She pointed the infusing hypo at a space between Will's ribs, just left of his sternum, and used the infuser's viewscreen to locate Will's pulmonary vein, which led from his lungs to his heart. If his lungs couldn't provide oxygen to his blood, the infuser would bypass them, delivering oxygen directly through the vessel so his heart could supply it to the rest of his body until the oil in his lungs could be dissipated. Within one minute, Will was feeling better physically. His lips were pinking up and his respiratory rate had slowed to a more nominal rate. She thought about the medical tricorder, but her hands and Martinez' hands were full with the O2 infuser, and no one else was in a decon suit to use it, instead.

_What kind of a doctor would I be if I couldn't do without a medical tricorder to assess physical reactions,_ Beverly thought. _I'll mess with it later._

"Good, Will," she said, her voice soft, comforting. "I don't want to lose you, too."

Will nodded, looking at her, realizing that this wasn't a nightmare. He'd been enveloped-and released by Armus. Deanna and the shuttle's pilot were still stranded, still injured. Tasha was still dead.

* * *

Within 15 minutes, the other medications had taken affect and his lungs were functioning well enough for him to no longer need the infuser. Beverly stopped the O2 infusion, performed a quick, tricorder scan to tell her what she already knew: He was responding well to the treatment and had stabilized. Sensors detected nothing in the viscous fluid that was harmful to the ship or its crew, so Will wouldn't need to remain in decon after his shower. Beverly stepped from the decon unit, noticing her hands were shaking a bit. She'd already lost one co-worker and friend, just came close to losing another and there still were two more officers stranded on Vagra.

Martinez helped Will peel off his oily uniform, then mercifully left him alone for the most part, opting only to ask the required questions of him while setting up the decon shower. _Are you lightheaded?_ No. _Do you need help?_ No. _Does the Sonic shower need to be adjusted for viscous removal?_ Yes. Please. I want everything gone, he'd said, initially not feeling the needles of high-powered water powering across his skin to ferret out any hidden remnant of Armus. Martinez brought several towels into the decon shower suite, and left Will to dress himself.

Will emerged later, trying not to look toward that trauma bed on the edge of sickbay where Tasha had been pronounced dead, earlier. He numbly followed Martinez' post-decon orders and lay down on a bed across the room for follow-up scans and treatment.

But he couldn't help but notice another patient in an adjacent bed.

Lt. Saul Minnerly had been escorted into Sickbay only minutes earlier by two security ensigns. Four bones in his right hand were fractured, broken from the impact of his striking the first solid object in his path—the nearest bulkhead—when he heard of Lt. Yar's death. It had taken Diego Martinez several minutes to get that information out of him.

Minnerly wasn't just hacked off over the death of a mentor. He saw Natasha Yar as an older sister whose temperament was so similar to his own. He sat, stoic, while the knitter worked on his fractured hand. Will suspected that if Minnerly had been the one who died, Tasha would have punched a wall, too.

* * *

**On the bridge, 1510 hours**

Will was released from Sickbay and retreated to the bridge, blithely nodding to two, well-meaning crew members who stopped him in the corridor to tell him how sorry they were about Lt. Yar's death. He fleetingly wondered what the officers believed of the relationship that he and Tasha had shared. _Which version had they heard in the grapevine? The supposed romance we resisted because it didn't feel right, or the close friendship we actually had?_

He felt as if he was watching another first officer staggering through the _Enterprise._

_Did this really happen?_ He snapped his fingers as he continued down the ship's corridors, hoping he'd wake up. His combadge beeped and brought him back to the grim reality that had one happy ending. Worf notified him that Deanna Troi and the shuttle's pilot had been successfully beamed directly to sickbay, and that Picard was waiting for him on the bridge.

Will arrived on the bridge just as the _Enterprise_ warped away from Vagra, and forced himself not to look at the tactical station. He knew Worf wouldn't take that personally. He forced himself to sit—not flop—onto the first officer's chair. Picard took his customary spot in the captain's chair, and a mere three seconds later, he turned to Will, and relieved him of duty.

"Number One," Picard said, simply and quietly. "You are dismissed until briefing at 0800 tomorrow."

He didn't say why, and didn't need to. It was a simple gesture, done normally by captains for crew who just had lost immediate family members. They couldn't be expected to continue functioning normally under that type of strain. Will Riker had already done that.

Will didn't argue, but forced back a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir," he said, and left.

* * *

**In sickbay, 1515 hours**

After their rescue, Deanna and the pilot were treated for their injuries in sickbay and would be resting there throughout the night. Both shuttle occupants had been lucky to survive their crash-landing on Vagra and would be all right after receiving treatment for various fractures and internal injuries. The pilot sustained a moderate concussion, but also would completely recover.

Perhaps mercifully—and perhaps not—Deanna's injuries hadn't knocked her unconscious. She sensed Tasha slipping away after Armus's energy pulse, but had hoped that she could be revived after being beamed to the _Enterprise_. She didn't know until she reached sickbay that Tasha didn't survive, and sensed that bad news from everyone around her.

Deanna spent her first 30 minutes in sickbay having medical staff focused on her hip and leg fractures, while she lay flat on her back, silently crying behind her uninjured hand covering her eyes. She couldn't allow herself the relative luxury of really purging her grief because two of her ribs also were fractured. Painkillers or not, sobbing would have hurt too much.

In an attempt to deal with her own anguish, Deanna Troi had forced herself inward, away from the silently anguished sensations around her. When Will arrived in sickbay to check on her after he'd been relieved of duty, she didn't turn toward him. Normally, she would have felt Will Riker's presence, but not this time. He stood next to her for several seconds, stammering in his mind over what he should say.

"Dee," he said, using his other nickname for her, the one he could use anywhere without drawing attention to their previous relationship. Somehow, the word 'imzadi' just didn't seem appropriate right now. As soon as she heard his voice, her breath caught as she moved her hand so she could look at him, could sense his pushed-back grief.

"They told you?" he said, and she nodded, closing her red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm glad you're all right," he said, smoothing her tousled hair from her face.

Fresh tears welled and spilled over down the side of her face as she looked up at him. "She wouldn't have died if—," Deanna began.

"Don't," he said. He leaned close, kissing her on the cheek, whispering, "Shh . . ."

He felt one of her hands reaching up to grasp his hand, which had unconsciously cradled the side of her face. Her eyes floated shut again as she drew comfort from his gestures, but she still kept her mind shut, lest Will's still-raw grief overwhelm her. Will wasn't outwardly emoting like many others were, at least not yet. But it didn't take an empath to tell how profoundly Will Riker had been impacted by the death of Natasha Yar.

Dr. Selar allowed Will and Deanna's quick conversation, then shooed him out so Deanna and the pilot could complete their treatment.

* * *

Will stepped away from the trauma treatment area, and saw Dr. Crusher sitting at her desk. He tried to imagine which would have been worse: Watching his best friend dying from across the room, or being the one to make that call to terminate resuscitation efforts. He'd initially thought it was worse being the bystander, clenching and unclenching his fists, wanting to do something but being powerless to control what was happening.

She was filling out Tasha's death certificate and detailing the futile resuscitation efforts. _The paperwork is worse than the actual situation,_ she thought. _Now that I have time to think about what happened. _Tasha had become a good friend, one of her students. As much as she enjoyed mentoring people, she wondered if she'd ever want to mentor anyone in the field, again. It was just too difficult, losing someone like this, to something so . . . meaningless.

_Tasha did nothing wrong! _Beverly had insisted to Picard during that first, horrible staff meeting only minutes after she'd pronounced the death of the _Enterprise_'s security chief._ She was trying to help! She was doing her job, and following her instincts!_

"Dr. Crusher," Will said, snapping her out of her reverie.

She looked up from her computer. "Hi, Will," she replied, almost whispering. She looked haggard, stressed out, staggering on.

"Thank you for . . . everything, and for doing everything you could for Tasha," he said, stepping into her office as she stood up behind her desk.

"There was nothing I could do for her, except go through the motions," she said, lowering her eyes to the floor as she shoved both her hands into the pockets of her physician's coat.

"Thank you for going through the motions," Will said.

"How are you doing?" Beverly asked.

He shrugged, not knowing where to begin. _I watched my best friend being murdered over nothing, and then I vomited black stuff all over your decon bay,_ he thought. _Now, I'm just dandy._ She walked around the side of her desk to stand in front of him.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I wish I'd died with her," he admitted, lowering his eyes. "I'd have traded places with her in a heartbeat."

He felt Beverly's hand touching the side of his face, and looked up again to see her blue eyes glistening with tears. Her arms reached around his broad shoulders, wordlessly pulling him close for a casual embrace, and found himself hugging her back, allowing his forehead to tip forward—albeit briefly—onto her shoulder.

It occurred to Will that Beverly Crusher did understand—more than most—what it meant to lose someone close to her, and understood also that he didn't want to hear any comforting platitudes, right now. So she said nothing, just held him for about a minute, until he broke the embrace because Captain Picard was calling Dr. Crusher to the bridge.

* * *

**Natasha Yar's cabin, 1640 hours**

So Will went to Tasha's cabin, where someone had left her boots on that side table that Tasha had sworn several times she wanted to move. It was convenient to have it near the door so she could grab things quickly if he had to leave quickly. Now the table offered the reverse benefit for the boot bearer, who could drop and leave as quickly as possible.

Will allowed the cabin door to shut behind him, then he instructed the computer to lock that door behind him.

_It's too quiet in here._

"Computer, play whatever music was playing in here, earlier," Will said, then had a second thought. "Only, not as loud as it probably was played, earlier."

Not surprisingly, what belted out of the volume-lowered speakers still was loud and gritty, one of thousands of songs she'd brought back from their time warp. She'd grown to enjoy the biting music that Shaun Conaghan listened to, and her "friend with benefits" had acquired plenty of it for her - probably illegally downloaded - while they were stranded in the 21st century.

Will propped his elbows on his knees and let his head fall into his hands. He wondered why he was doing this to himself, willingly listening to this Nickelback garbage he'd _hated_ whenever she was listening to it in their apartment. It was tearing him apart hearing it again, choking him up, and he'd barely been in her cabin for two minutes. He dictated his keycode into the computer so he could access jazz recordings he'd brought back for his own collection. _If I'm going to listen to anything from the 21st century, I'm at least going to leave this cabin without my ears ringing._

All officers were required to make disposition instructions in the event of their death, detailing who aboard their ship was allowed access to personal belongings and logs. Tasha had granted access to only one person: Will Riker. He'd suspected she would have done that, but felt his heart breaking a bit more when he read it officially. The computer requested a retinal scan for Will to view a note Tasha had attached in the event of her death, for his eyes only:

_"Will, if you're reading this, I've either died or been declared dead. And if I'm not dead but you're reading it anyway, I probably won't be able to look you in the face for a long time. But after two years squeezed into 10 months of "official time" and so many memories, it's time for words to go with that pile of snapshots we brought back._

_Thank you for your friendship and your honesty, for your shoulder, for letting me be myself while encouraging me to grow, for listening to me, for helping me, for making me feel safe. I wouldn't trade those months in Kansas City for anything, nor would I trade what we went through when we came back and suddenly had to carry on as if our time warp never happened. _

_I figured we were drifting apart again but it was just the opposite. It just solidified what I already knew. You've become my best friend, my big brother, and I care about you a lot more than I'm probably supposed to. _

_I owe you more than I could have repaid, even if I'd lived to be 100. You deserve to be happy, and fulfilled—not just career-wise, but also in your life. Thank you for showing me how to do that._

_Love, Tasha._

_Oh, and if you're the one cleaning out my cabin, sorry about all the balled-up, dirty socks that are under the couch . . . I was aiming for the refuse and they bounced off the edges. Anyway, KC likes playing with them, so I left them . . . not that you'd be surprised by that. But I thought you'd be proud to know that I WAS wearing socks . . . well, most of the time."_

Despite himself, Will smiled a bit.

* * *

Will didn't get much packed away. He wasn't supposed to be going through her things, yet, anyway. He was supposed to be off-duty, captain's orders, resting in his own cabin. But he spent the night in Tasha's cabin, instead, looking through a container of mementos she'd kept: An "enforcer" t-shirt she'd worn when she was working at the 43rd, the handwritten, spiral notebook full of linguistic and cultural tips that they'd gathered during their months there. They had purchased and processed several disposable cameras, and now had a stack of paper photos that had been taken in various places: At Will's work and Tasha's work, from intramural ball games, from Reconciliation, from the Tobins.

Will's favorite was the photo snapped at the St. Patrick's Day parade in Kansas City. A woman sitting on the curb next to them had asked if he would take a picture of her family with her camera, and she offered to do the same for him, and did. It was by far his favorite photo of the two of them together, and he wanted a copy: Just Will and Tasha, mugging for a camera, friends watching a parade on a nice day. _I should convert all these to digital,_ he thought.

The cat jumped up into the coffee table, startling him.

Will had never cared for Tasha's cat—or any cat, for that manner—and generally KC felt the same about Will. But tonight, he scratched the cat's head and chin, then he picked up KC and embraced him. For once, KC didn't claw at Will, nor struggle to get away. He allowed a 15-second embrace from the man before scrambling away to wait by the door for Tasha to return.

Tasha's bedroom was spartan and nondescript, but cluttered, which was no surprise. She had what she needed, and that was all she wanted: Someplace safe to sleep. Exhausted and now overwhelmed by tears, Will fell asleep there, curled up on his side and embracing the pillows Tasha had slept on only the night before.

The cat lay nearby on the floor, familiar with Will but not as attached to him as he'd been to Tasha. So KC hunkered down beside the bed, instead, guarding the man's relative solitude, sensing somehow that the friendly woman who'd brought him to this strange place wasn't coming back.

* * *

**From Will Riker's personal log**

_I remember your premonition. I outwardly blew it off and inwardly hoped you were wrong. But as I watched you walk around Armus, I had a sudden, awful feeling I can't describe. I'd opened my mouth to say something, to stop you. And then you were flying through the air. _

_I knew you'd be injured, but I never thought you were mortally wounded. I remember touching your head, seeing that mark was on the side of your face. Dr. Crusher told me later that you were burned, that it was an exit mark, that you were hit with more energy than it's possible to survive. _

_I could feel the faint pulse at your temple, and then it slipped away. I'm convinced that I felt you die. You were tense, hurting, pissed off, and then suddenly you accepted your fate. I swear I heard you saying, "Oh, okay, okay," as if you were at peace for the first time. _

_That scared me. I knew this was bad, bad, bad. _

_But I pushed my hunch aside—again, and hoped Dr. Crusher would do what she's done before, fix you up so I could tease you about it later. She told us you were dead only a few seconds after we arrived at your side and no one believed it. I didn't want to believe it, even though I'd just felt it happen. I knew you were already gone, even before you were beamed up._

_I have so many regrets, and a big one was that I didn't stay right beside you in Sickbay. You'd been slapped into a set of machines. Picard and I were trying to stay out of the medical team's way. But she didn't quit, even did cortical stimulation after it obviously was not going to work. By then, your body didn't even twitch when you shocked with the highest possible charge, over and over. _

_Horrible as this was, I'm glad we were with you, that you weren't alone. I know that was your biggest fear. . .not dying, but dying alone. I'm glad I didn't move my hands from your head while Beverly Crusher was assessing you, even if you probably never knew I was there. I'd like to believe that you knew that. I'd like to believe lots of things, right now._

_You were the one who paid the ultimate price, but I feel like I've been ripped into pieces. How selfish is that? I'm supposed to be packing your things up. It's my job as First Officer. It usually takes 20 minutes, max, to pack up an officer's belongings. I typically don't spend the night in someone's cabin, flooded with memories and crying like a little kid._

_I miss you, Tash._

_I know you wanted to go quickly, that you didn't want to suffer. I suppose you went as quickly as you wanted to go. But this was too quick for the rest of us. _

_And much too soon for me._


	15. Chapter 15

_...And Will Riker staggers on. Warning for some ultra-naughty language ahead, uttered toward a character who had it coming._

* * *

**Future's Present, Chapter 15**

* * *

**_USS_ _Enterprise_, Stardate 41698.0**

The entire day after Natasha Yar's death was a blur for Will Riker, who staggered about his First Officer's duties on a sort of autopilot. He had jolted awake at 0445, hoping for a microsecond that he'd had an awful nightmare—then realized he was in Tasha's cabin, in her bed, alone. He'd spent the night there. She'd been killed the day before.

He sat on the edge of her bed for a while, glad that he'd at least taken his uniform boots off before he'd fallen asleep on her bed while still wearing his uniform. He hadn't even bothered to take off his combadge. _Great job, Will,_ he thought. Irritated at himself, he finally detached it and looked at it for a few seconds, hoping he hadn't accidentally keyed it while he was tossing and turning overnight.

Will knew he'd had nightmares, and was glad he had already forgotten the specifics. The sheets were so tousled that they'd been yanked from around the base of the bed.

Tasha's cat, KC, lounged on the floor nearby, glowering at Will but accepting his presence. He scooted out of the way as Will stood and staggered to the bathroom. He chanced a glance in the mirror after a few minutes and stared blankly at his puffy face and mussed hair and day's growth of beard, because he'd neglected to apply beard repressor the night before. He'd forgotten because he no longer gave a damn.

_Yecch, you look like shit, Will,_ he thought . . . only it wasn't _his_ voice he heard in the back of his head. He heard Tasha's voice, mildly serious but with that honesty he knew he'd miss. He'd heard her say that before, for real, on countless mornings in Kansas City when he was recovering from having too much to drink the previous night. Her tone on those mornings always was different. _You earned that headache,_ she'd said. _You knew better, you did it anyway. Nice._

This morning, he was hung over from grief, worse than any wine flu he'd ever had in his life. He could hear Tasha's voice plain as she was standing there beside him, only this time, she didn't have that told-you-so edge to her voice. He knew he was imagining it, but he couldn't help but reply out loud, wondering if this was Stage One of losing what was left of his sanity.

"Thanks, Tash," he muttered, his eyes blurring with tears. "I feel like shit, too."

* * *

Will numbly stood stoic through the "celebration of life" service that Picard had conjured up, and was somewhat moved that Picard apparently had accessed the Holodeck's Loose Park program that Tasha and Will had visited only a week before she died. _How did he know about Loose Park?_ He wondered, trying to remember if he'd mentioned it to anyone. He could barely remember the last five minutes, let alone the last week.

Her hologram message was well-scripted, short and sweet, leaving a message to each of her senior officer friends—she even said something to Wesley Crusher, though Will was so numb that he couldn't recall much of what she'd said. The instant her hologram ghost uttered, 'Will Riker, you are the best', he'd almost lost his composure in front of everyone standing next to him on the Holodeck lawn under the fake sunshine. So he'd shut himself down, not listening to anything else that was said, fearful of becoming as outwardly upset as Deanna—and it was impossible for him to not know how upset she was. She stood beside him only an hour after being sprung from Sickbay, and he could feel her sadness and survivor's guilt seeping into his own.

Will made it through the service by trying to think about those times he and Tasha hadn't gotten along. He thought about fights they'd had while they were stranded on Earth in their time warp. He pushed his grief aside by remembering what he didn't like thinking about. He recalled nagging her about her poor housekeeping, of repeatedly picking up after everything she'd left strewn all over the apartment. He remembered needing to be at his job at Nichols Jazz in 20 minutes and discovering that Tasha had raided his last clean shirt, rolled up its ironed sleeves so she could wear it as a housecoat and left it wadded on the couch. He thought about terse discussions that descended into shouting matches, about one awful morning when he'd taken the _lowest_ blow possible toward her as she was fleeing the apartment. He tried to think of how angry he was at her for the next several days, how he didn't miss her _at all_ while she was gone, how hacked off he was that in her haste to leave, she'd forgotten her cell phone charger and that at some point, she'd need to come back to get it.

Bad memories got him through the remainder of the service, and got him through his long walk back to the bridge and chatting with Lt. Worf, who was now Chief of Security. Worf was as terse as Will had hoped he would be. For that, he was thankful. He didn't want to hear anyone's stammering sympathies, regardless of how well meaning they were. At some point, he'd chat with people about Tasha, but not now, not today, not for a while. Somehow, the senior staff and the entire bridge crew on duty that day all sensed that Natasha Yar's death was a deeply fresh wound for Will Riker, and they dared not touch it. Even Data, whose innate curiosity yielded questions that would have gutted Will, had turned instead to Captain Picard to ask them after her service. Picard had fielded Data's questions with the grace and wisdom of a patriarch.

* * *

After Tasha's service, Will returned to her cabin to remove her belongings. Half of what she possessed were items she'd brought back from Kansas City, and he'd left them strewn across the coffee table while he attended the service and the usual (albeit sobering) staff meeting at 0800. He packed up everything and moved it to his cabin—including five, wadded-up socks that he'd found under the couch. He knew it was wrong, somewhat sick, for him to be keeping Tasha's dirty socks that had become playthings for her cat. _Maybe those will ease KC's transition,_ he thought. That was what he planned to tell anyone who asked, anyway, as if it were anyone's business.

Sometime later, he'd look at everything again, but not immediately. She had no family who would claim her belongings, and had specified in her bio that Will Riker be responsible for them. He placed the entire case into the storage compartment in his cabin, the one reserved for an officer's personal belongings.

Then he returned one last time to her cabin, now mercifully empty of anything that had been Tasha's except for one thing: Her cat. Will knelt to pick up KC, scratched the cat's ears and hoped he'd fare better than Lt. Worf did when he'd carried KC down the _Enterprise _corridor a few weeks earlier. Worf's cat-scratch lacerations had been funny, then, and Tasha's superstition about the escaped arboretum bird swooping into her cabin also seemed laughable, something to tease her about. As Will left her cabin, carrying KC securely, he wondered when he'd ever laugh again.

* * *

Barely 10 minutes after Will deposited KC into his own cabin, Captain Picard chimed his door. Even before the cabin door finished sliding shut behind Picard, Will saw the Starfleet-issue urn cradled in his captain's arms.

A jolt of gutting recognition shot through him, and he unconsciously looked down, at anything else, at the patch of carpet that KC had begun shredding within one minute of his arrival.

Picard sensed Will's discomfort and mercifully chose not to mince words. He gently laid the urn on the coffee table and sat on the easy chair, just across from the couch where Will had practically sprawled, not really caring about protocol, right now. Picard didn't blame him, one bit.

"Commander, I have reviewed Lt. Yar's will, and she had asked that you be responsible for her ashes," Picard said. "She indicated that you would know what to do with them."

"Yes, sir," Will nodded, forcing himself to sit up straighter, to at least retain some shred of dignity before his commanding officer. KC had already inspected much of Will's cabin and now was creeping closer to the cabin's visitor. Picard noticed the cat and held his hand out—cautiously, as he'd heard the tale of Lt. Worf vs. The Cat. KC chose to sit on the floor barely one meter away from the captain, a safe distance, for now.

"In my life, I've learned that there are friends who fall away with years and distance, friends you work with, friends who become more than that," Picard said. "And then there are those rare people who fall somewhere between friends and family. I suspect that for you, Natasha Yar qualified in the latter category."

"Yes, she did," Riker replied, gently picking up the urn. _Are you sure she's in here?_ he nearly said. It was light to hold, but his new burden weighed on him heavily.

"I must admit that I've presided over so many memorials," Picard said, and he looked away from Will, his voice, not as terse as usual, softer, more wizened than commanding. "I have never before had a member of my crew regard me as a father figure."

Will looked at him. Has Tasha said that to him during the memorial service? He couldn't recall if she had, or not. But she'd said as much to Will before, and he knew she regarded Picard in that way.

"She did," Will finally replied. "She said that to me several times. Even on Earth, she mentioned it. She never wanted to let you down, and that wasn't just because you were her captain. She'd never grown up with a father figure in her life, but she regarded you as one."

Picard glanced at him, tried to disguise—unsuccessfully—that he needed to swallow a couple of times before he spoke. "We spend so much time serving with people, working alongside them, with them at our backs—both figuratively and literally in this case, she had our backs. But I never really knew her. That is where I feel this loss."

Will nodded, unsure of whether he should offer the expected platitudes, or simply listen.

"Will, I am sincerely sorry," Picard said. "I underestimated the depth of your relationship, your friendship. And I have learned a very, very hard lesson from this, that trying to control the direction that a relationship takes is futile at best, and painful for everyone involved at worst."

"Thank you, sir."

"Have you considered where her final resting place will be?"

_Her final resting place,_ Will thought. _How Tasha would roll her eyes at that. She was too restless to rest anywhere. _

He nodded. "Yes, sir," he replied. "It'll be on Earth, but . . . I'd rather wait, at least until things have stabilized for the crew, here. Besides, we're down two shuttles."

Picard nodded. "It's best not to wait too long, Will," he said. "Memories and mementoes can become ghosts if we let them. I did like that part of her speech to us, that there be no goodbyes, just good memories."

Will nodded again, his jaw set, initially. He still didn't remember the rest of what Tasha had said during her own memorial service. Now he wished he'd listened, knew he could call up the program again if he wanted to. But he wouldn't do that today, or tonight, or even tomorrow. _Maybe after a few months,_ he thought.

* * *

Picard took his leave of the uncharacteristically silent, sullen first officer, leaving Will on the couch in his own cabin, regarding the urn on his coffee table.

He stared at it for several minutes.

"How could you do this to me?" he muttered, only half in jest.

Will knew that if their roles were reversed and she was sitting in her cabin regarding his cooked-down remains, she'd be saying the same thing—probably with an angrier edge to her voice. But at least she'd know where to scatter his ashes because he had told her _exactly_ where he wanted to be: In Prince William Sound, off the coast of his beloved Alaska, within sight of the beaches he'd run as a boy and still dreamed about as a secretly homesick man.

Other than mentioning to him several of her favorite places, she hadn't said much to him about where she'd want her remains to be scattered, spread, dumped, tossed or left behind. They'd only discussed it in passing. Premonitions or not, neither had thought either actually would _pass_ anytime soon.

He knew one thing, definitively. He wasn't sending her out an airlock into the cold, dark emptiness of space. She hated Zero-G. A small smile actually came to his face as he recalled what had happened just after the rescue team arrived to retrieve the lost Starfleet officers from Earth of the past, and Tasha had taken her turn orbiting Earth in the damaged shuttlecraft, along with rescue crew member Lt. Louden Kendall. The way Kendall told it, it was a really funny story—at least, it would be one day, once Will started laughing again. _So we were floating around, and_ _I looked over at Lt. Yar, and she had five-pointed herself to the co-pilot's seat,_ Kendall had said. _She claimed she was absolutely fine, but her face was pea soup green. _

Will had laughed at the time, hearing about her latest bout with airsickness. Now he smiled unconsciously, grateful that those instances could back up his decision.

_I'm not leaving you out here, _he thought, touching the top of the urn._ I'm taking you home._

* * *

**Will Riker****'s personal log, Stardate 41775.6**

_The first person I__'d ever mourned was someone I'd never really known: My mother, who perished in a ground car accident when I was two. I had mourned the idea of her after I was old enough to realize what I'd lost._

_But __when Tasha was killed, I felt as if a piece of my soul was ripped out, and it's still not healed. I imagine it never will. I've never believed in the concept of the afterlife, but I remember hearing from someone that once the soul is gone, it's gone. And that part, I believe. Right now, I can't imagine ever feeling entirely normal again._

_I remember when Tasha __told me about the death of her brother. She said that even though she felt dead inside, that she was still alive for a reason and that he'd wanted her to live. She would have wanted me to do the same. So I guess I need to keep putting one foot in front of the other and acting on autopilot, until I figure out how to keep living._

Will paused, at a loss for words in the midst of his personal log. Within a few seconds, his door chimed again. He took that as a hint that he was done, and closed out the log before answering his door. He was both relieved and nervous to see Deanna Troi. He could sense she was still upset, and felt a myriad of emotions bubbling up within him as she walked into his cabin and unceremoniously sat beside him on the couch.

He was relieved that he'd gently placed the urn in a safekeeping unit at the base of the storage unit in his bedroom. He pulled his eyes away from the coffee table where that urn had been only five minutes earlier, glanced sideways at her, then looked away.

True to form, she cut right to the chase.

"I'm sensing in you a devastation that you cannot put into words," Deanna said. "When people mourn what wasn't finished, they lose track of what did happen, and those good memories begin to fade. And that was Tasha's wish. That we not bid goodbye, but rather, that we have good memories."

_There it is, again . . . another reminder of why I should have paid attention to that hologram ._ . . he forced that thought back, realizing that Deanna would be able to sense his emotions. _She probably already knows I wasn't listening. No wonder she brought it up._

She smiled. Will didn't buy that for a second.

"I will forever cherish a memory I have from Angel One, when Tasha and I were laughing so hard at you wearing that hideous outfit," Deanna began, anyway.

_She's trying to cheer me up, trying to be funny,_ Will thought. _Terrific. _He forced a smile, then shook his head.

"Please tell me what you're feeling, because the jumble I'm sensing is so convoluted, and so tied up in knots that even I don't know, right now," she finally said.

"I'm not sure I know, either," he muttered.

"Regrets," she said.

"Lots of regrets," he said. He was flooded with guilt, wracked with regrets, so many that he couldn't sort them out.

"What kind of regrets?"

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, pressed his fingertips together and propped them against the bridge of his nose. He gazed ahead toward the opposite side of his cabin at artwork on the wall, artwork that meant nothing to him even though it took up space in his cabin. "I don't know how to describe this."

"You wish you had been intimate?" she asked, her voice soft, sensing one clear memory flashing through his mind, of a physical closeness he and Tasha had shared not so long ago, a memory spurred by something Will was seeing, perhaps by a visual reference nearby. But the sensation was gone almost as quickly as Deanna perceived it, and not because Will forced it away. It was one of many memories flooding through him, right now.

"No," Will said, almost immediately, defensively. "A romantic relationship wouldn't have been right between Tasha and I. We knew it. We felt it! Something wasn't right . . . it seemed almost incestuous."

"It's normal, in the midst of the grieving process, to have those 'what if' moments," Deanna said, though she could sense none of those fantasies from his mind, right now. Everything he felt was based on actual memories.

"I figured it was very unhealthy," he admitted.

"Not necessarily," she replied. "It's the mind's way of expressing regrets for actions not taken."

"The actions you referred to wouldn't have been right."

"What about the things you did want to do? Things you two had planned, perhaps?"

He shook his head. "There were so many, I can't go there right now."

"But none of them involved a romantic relationship."

He stared at her. "Why are you so hung up on that?"

"I'm not hung up on—," she began, stammering.

_When the hell is she going to quit making this assumption that Tasha and I had—or ever would—be involved in a sexual relationship?_ He exploded, furious with her. "I'm glad you're a good counselor, because you're a horrible liar, Deanna!"

"It was merely an observ—," she continued.

"Bullshit!" he shouted at her. "You can't keep a secret to save your life, anyway, could you? Tasha never really did trust you, because you just can't keep from opening our mouth and sharing everything that's on our minds. The last thing she needed was for anything else to be forced on her, or forced from her. Did it ever occur to you that a person's thoughts might be private? Don't you ever think about that, before you blab our business to everyone who'll listen?"

Deanna stood up, her own temper flaring up. "On or off-duty, I don't have to tolerate this from you!" she shouted, standing up. "When you calm down and can act like an adult—."

"Look who's talking!" Will shouted back. "The ship tattletale!"

Deanna didn't wait to be dismissed, and Will didn't care one way or another. It was only after she'd left that he really recognized how far over the line he'd gone.

* * *

Will stayed in his cabin, simmering at first, but then staggering with guilt.

From her cabin, Counselor Troi couldn't see him, but didn't need to. She could sense Will's regret and anguish from all the way across the ship. She'd stormed out of his cabin, initially angry but resigned: _This was a normal part of the grieving process, and I cannot take it personally,_ she told herself, even as tears blurred her vision while she readied herself for bed. _Maybe he's got a point, that perhaps I should be more discrete. _

She undid her tightly wound hair that resided amidst beads on the back of her head. She'd appreciated her time on Earth, when she didn't feel as regulation-bound to keep herself just so. Without the more automated systems aboard the _Enterprise_, it hadn't been as easy for her to maintain her usual look while she was in the land of shampoo and conditioners on 21st century Earth. So she'd left her hair down most of the time while she was on Earth, allowing it to curl and frizz in the somewhat humidity of the North American Midwest. She had tied it from her face with a couple of thread-lined, stretchable hair fasteners, and then forgot about it.

_Will likes it when it's down,_ she thought, then shut that off. _Will,_ she thought, and this time, she didn't push his presence away. He'd made his anger known earlier and had taken it out on her. Now she could sense that he was in a different stage of his grief.

_Hopefully he's headed this way, _she thought, sensing that he'd left his cabin and was ignoring other people in the corridor. _How wonderful, to forget why I should be angry with him. I should forget more often. I should be more discrete with information, more casual with my hair. _

She could feel that he was getting closer to her cabin, and stepped to her door, initially planning to wait until he chimed the door to answer it. But her presence tripped the door to slide open anyway, so she nonchalantly stepped into the corridor . . . and as if on cue, Will came around the corner from the adjacent hallway.

Deanna turned, standing against the doorframe to her cabin, and looked him square in the face as he approached. His own gaze dropped toward the floor between them.

"Commander," she began, formally.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

She nodded. "Please," she nodded, standing aside. He walked in as if he lived there, sat on her couch, holding his head in his hands as she shut tapped the 'lock' setting on her cabin door just after it shut behind her. He finally looked up as he felt her sitting beside him, his eyes brimming with tears and exhaustion.

"I'm sorry I blew up at you like that," he said, shaking his head his hands how outstretched up in front of him, pleading, as his voice broke. "This is—I'm so sorry. I just don't know what else to say."

In all the years Deanna had known Will Riker, she had never seen him cry—never even seen him close to it. But now, he was truly devastated, and was upset because he was so devastated. Something else was happening, here. She could sense it. He didn't want to be comforted, not even by her. He only wanted to be heard, even as his grief was ripping his normally unflappable moorings—and tearing her apart to witness it. Now she was the one forcing her own emotions back, just as he knew he'd done during Tasha's service earlier that day.

"This isn't just another line-of-duty death," he said, tears streaking unabated across his flushed face. "This is having something . . . Tasha's dying was so—fucked up. It was pointless! She deserved her life. She'd earned it. She'd fought for it! So many people plod through, taking life for granted."

"Would a better death for her have hurt you less?" he chanced asking the question. It was a valid question.

"Right now, no," he said. "And she made me so proud, the way she changed from someone who was angry all the time to someone who was at peace with her past. She was taking what was useful from it and jettisoning the rest. And look where that got her."

Deanna forced herself to ignore the personal aspects, and focus on her role as a counselor.

"Since you lost your mother, you haven't allowed yourself to care so much for another person, before. That's why this seems so incapacitating for you, because you haven't allowed yourself to feel so attached to someone who was more like family," she said.

He shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know, anymore," he said, then a sudden question crossed his mind. "When it happened, did you know what was happening?"

"Yes, I sensed within her a flash of adrenaline and preparation for injury, then struggling, and then a sensation of peace," Deanna recalled. "She knew you were touching her and felt comforted by that, and then I felt her slip away."

Will's brow furrowed, and he looked sharply at her. _How did Deanna know that I was touching Tasha when she died?_ Deanna had been trapped in the shuttle when Will had knelt beside Tasha and had held her head still. There were no windows where she was sitting, and no way for her to see what was happening to the Away Team. She could sense emotions, but not direct thoughts.

"How did you know that I was touching her head?" he asked, wondering if perhaps she had sensed Will's immediate reaction to Tasha being attacked by Armus.

"She knew," Deanna replied.

"She did?" he asked. "You mean that was for real?"

"What was for real?" she asked, confused initially. "I don't understand."

"She was . . ," Will whispered. "I could almost hear her saying, 'Oh, OK, OK.' And I thought it was just my sick imagination, but that's what I thought at the time."

"You weren't imagining it," she said. "I sensed it when it was happening."

"How could she know that was me?" he asked. "Her eyes were closed. She was unconscious."

"She knew it was you," Deanna replied. "I could feel that it she knew it was you. She sensed she was mortally wounded and that there wasn't anything that could be done about it. She knew you were holding her head, and that comforted her. And then she just let go, on her terms, in that instant when she was ready to go. If you were dangling by a thread, would you watch as it slowly broke, or would you take control of the last seconds of your life, and let go on your own terms?"

"Tasha would never have taken her own life!"

"Her dying wasn't deliberate," Deanna replied. "It was inevitable. When we were back in the 21st century, all around us were references to planes crashing into buildings and people jumping from them. They chose leaping to their deaths over dying in flames or waiting for buildings to fall beneath their feet. She knew she was going to die. She chose to go on her terms, much like those doomed people who let go from the smoking windows of those buildings. Her fate was sealed, and she knew that. She took her fate into her hands, when she knew you were with her and that she wasn't alone."

"I feel like she took me with her."

"Have you ever felt anyone die, before?"

"No," he replied. "I've seen it but I've never felt . . ."

"Sensing someone's death can be either the most peaceful instant, or the most horrifying, depending on its circumstances and on the emotions carried within. In the instant she had to make that decision to fight the inevitable or slip away, she chose to go when her best friend was touching her. That was tremendously comforting for her. I suspect she'd be having the same difficulties that you are having if your roles were reversed."

"She would have hated it," Will said.

"But she would have understood," Deanna said. "Tasha told me about the man who was shot to death outside the shelter, that she didn't want him to die alone. She didn't want to die alone, either. And she didn't. In that instant, she was at peace for the first time that I'd known her to be.

Will nodded. "I thought that, too."

"You need not be an empath to sense when people truly care for one another. The most loyal form of love isn't expressed sexually. It's expressed when someone knows the grittiest details within the soul of another being and still never abandons that individual, especially as they're parted by death. She loved you, Will, in a pure and familial manner. And I can feel that you loved her in the same way, and I'm glad for that. Even in death, you have a connection that goes beyond friendship. It's more rooted, perhaps by the history you lived through together."

_And perhaps__ for a deeper reason that I sense you've yet to discover,_ Deanna thought, but didn't say it. Later, she ruminated on that thought, unsure why it came to her mind. She was glad she didn't say that to Will, mostly because it didn't make ANY sense at all. _There was no reason for Tasha Yar to die,_ she thought, recalling that she'd even said as much to Armus as she bargained for her life and the life of the shuttle's pilot.

She knew Will would ruminate for much longer, but hoped he'd at least be comforted by what she had sensed in that instant when he'd tried to help Tasha live, but ultimately allowed her to die in peace.

* * *

Will began dreaming again within days, and tried throughout his waking hours to forget what he'd seen in his sleep. But he couldn't. He'd seen his mother again, walking along the beach. His daughter was there, turning over one ocean-polished stone after another. And Tasha was there, just as she'd been in his dreams just before she'd been killed.

At first, he thought he was overcome by resignation, which was almost more comforting than the other, more nagging sensation that trailed behind as he went through his daily duties aboard the _Enterprise._

"You're dreaming of her because you miss her," Deanna said, as they ate lunch together in her cabin the next day. He'd thought about going to Ten Forward, but ultimately took her up on her invitation to a quiet lunch in a location where they could speak without an audience. "You always will miss her."

"Sometimes I've had flashbacks of other crew deaths," he said. "I dreamed about the cadet who roomed across the hall from me at the Academy, who died in a stupid, diving accident. He was a lot of fun to be around and then he was gone. I dreamt about what might have happened once, but that was it. I chalked it up to being shocked that he'd been killed. We were all shocked."

"But this is different."

"Yes, this is completely different," he said.

"Do you feel like it's interfering with your duties while you're awake?"

He sighed. If anyone else could sense whether that was happening, it would be Deanna. He wasn't as numb as he had been the day that Tasha died, but knew he was still on autopilot. "Not outwardly," he admitted. "In spite of everything, I can refocus fairly well, I think."

"You can," she said. "I can feel that you're conflicted about something when you first arrive on the bridge, but within 15 minutes, you've moved on, and that's good. You haven't allowed these visions to overwhelm you. And you've dreamt about this twice?"

"Yes, twice that I remember."

"The next time, if you can, go with the dream. Follow it. Follow your mother, follow Tasha, follow whomever is there to guide you, and see what you can learn."

"I'm sure it's just subconscious bullshit, wishful thinking..."

"Well," Deanna said, drawing a breath, choosing to _paraphrase_ what he just said. "Subconscious thoughts often manifest in dreams that your conscious self cannot produce. I don't believe that it's necessarily nonsense."

* * *

Beverly had been heading back to her cabin from a flattering conference with one of Wesley's teachers, wishing inwardly that Jack still was alive to see how well Wes was getting along. She did wish that he had more friends, but was pleased that Jean-Luc Picard had allowed the precocious son to excel as an acting ensign.

She stepped into the lift to take her from Deck 12 to her cabin's deck, and the lift stopped halfway there to pick up Will Riker. He nodded to her politely as he stepped inside the lift and turned around to stand beside her as the lift resumed.

"You may not believe it now, but it does get better," she said.

He looked at her, surprised at her candor but not exactly shocked. Beverly's husband had been killed years ago, but Will had learned early on during his service with Dr. Crusher that she would change the subject rather than discuss Jack's death.

"When will that be?" he asked, halfway to maintain a polite conversation.

"It ends when you think more about the good times, instead of the dwelling on the loss," he said. "The things you keep should be the things that bring good memories, just like she said."

"I hadn't even been listening to her eulogy," Will admitted. "I just stood there."

"I know you weren't," Beverly said, and a jolt of embarrassment went through him when she said it. "I didn't listen to Jack's eulogy, either. I listened to the recording several months later, but during the service, I was too numb to hear—well, I heard it, but I didn't really listen. Plus, there were people attending the service who seemed like they were waiting for the Grieving Widow Show, so I blocked it out. I know you did the same. And that's OK."

Will let out a deep breath that he'd been holding. "It seems so disrespectful."

"Not at all," she said. "It is how it is. She'd have done the same thing, and you know it."

He nodded in response, but still couldn't look at her, even as the lift arrived at their cabin deck, and she unconsciously walked with him. Their cabins were on the same wing of the senior officer's deck.

"I don't even remember what our last conversation was about, let alone what we said to each other," Will remarked.

"We tend to remember the bad times, solely because we've brooded about them, so those memories are cemented. But the good times often slip away. When those aren't recounted, there's a different level of regret. It's not always the loss of a person that hurts: It's the loss of unrecounted memories that have slipped away from us. Just don't start wallowing. I didn't know her nearly as well as you did, but I suspect that if she thought you were wallowing . . . well, I think what—,"

"She'd kick my ass, is what she would do," Will said. "And then she'd give me a hand up, and tell me to quit it, and then that would be that."

"I'm already anticipating a full house in Sickbay for the martial arts competition," Beverly said, changing the subject . . . sort of.

"Well, you won't be seeing me."

"You're not entered?" she asked.

"I wouldn't have entered before Tasha died, and I sure as hell am not entering now."

"I figured you martial arts people always had scores to settle for each other," Beverly remarked. "I see your group more than I see any other."

Will shrugged. "Oh, there are a few scores out there," he replied, being deliberately vague. "I won't be settling any of mine anytime soon, but . . . those have a way of taking care of themselves, know what I mean?"

Beverly nodded, giving Will a look that told him plenty: She knew. At least one person was going to get hurt, tomorrow. Nothing could be official, and Will wasn't about to say who it was, though Beverly had a pretty good idea. It wasn't exactly a secret.

* * *

Will hadn't wanted to go to the martial arts contest, at all. But he swallowed hard and finally stopped by during the final elimination round at 1915 hours. He arrived just in time to see Commander Logan bouncing around in the ring, taunting Saul Minnerly.

Minnerly could have finished him off in 5 seconds, but chose instead to let Logan be his cocky self for a while, let him exhaust himself. The engineering commander strutted around the mat, and dug his own show-off hole for a few seconds with a few weak-ass sucker-punches that he leaned into too much.

Logan's form was horrible, and for a fleeting instant, Minnerly felt sorry for the guy. No one had ever taught Logan to turn his feet out, so he was consistently off-balance and he stumbled out of everything. Academy instructors undoubtedly would have shown him correct form, but since Logan thought he was right about everything, he probably didn't listen. _What an asshole,_ Minnerly thought. _All bulk and brains, with no tact or common sense._

"Come on, hot dog!" Logan shouted at Minnerly, who finally, calmly walked toward him. "Get your buns over here! What're you waiting f—"

Before Logan could finish his taunting, Minnerly delivered a left undercut to Logan's overly soft midsection, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to bend over in an involuntary, protective gesture against another abdominal blow. _He's making this way too easy,_ Minnerly thought, instantly following with a right hook to Logan's face, knocking two of his teeth out, sending them flying against the nearest wall. A collection of "ooh" emanated from the crowd of maybe 100 people who had gathered to watch.

Kristjana Minnerly was one of them, and was glad that another mother was watching Lilija while Saul was beating his opponent to a bloody pulp. She winced when she saw the teeth flying past, but wasn't surprised. _He's not going to knock him out, not yet,_ she thought, knowing his strategy. _He's going to make sure he stays conscious, and let him suffer for a while._

Blood streamed from Logan's mouth and nose, dribbling down his chin and onto the mat, and Will arrived at the match just in time to see Minnerly finishing Logan off with a lightning-fast, whip kick that made an audible crunching sound as the side of his foot fractured several of Logan's ribs. Logan fell to the mat like a shot bird.

Minnerly didn't need to have further contact with his opponent after the match was called, and certainly wasn't required to help him up off the floor. At first, it looked to everyone as if he might actually help Logan up, but Will knew better. So did Kristjana, who nodded toward Commander Riker as he moved to stand beside her as Minnerly knelt beside his opponent.

"Saul must have drawn the magic number," Riker remarked.

Kristjana remarked. "He sure did," she said.

Minnerly clenched the back of Logan's uniform shirt, as if to lift him off the mat for one, last blow to the face. Logan looked up with unfocused eyes, drooling blood onto the mat. His mouth hung open both in disbelief and surprise—plus a fair amount of automatic effort. Minnerly held him up just long enough to get his attention.

And in a low voice that only audible to the two of them, Minnerly hissed, "That was for Lt. Yar, you perverted motherfucker."

He let go of Logan's shirt, allowing the bloodied commander to plop face first back onto the mat. Minnerly stood and walked off, leaving Sickbay's standby medics to clean up the mess.

* * *

Despite himself, Geordi LaForge couldn't resist laughing when Will Riker tracked him down in Ten Forward. He knew it wasn't very nice, to laugh at the relative misfortune of another Starfleet officer. But Logan had it coming, and as Commander Riker said, "paybacks were a bitch.".

"She'd think it was funny," Will remarked. "Trust me."

"It is funny," Geordi replied.

They chatted for over a couple of drinks, sharing a few memories of Tasha with each other.

"Teaching Tasha to cook," Will said. "That was an exercise in futility."

"Didn't like to cook, huh?" Geordi said.

"She hated cooking," Will replied. "She could make a sandwich, I guess. But her idea of breakfast was a bowl of dry cereal with hot salsa spooned onto it."

Geordi groaned. That sounded _revolting._

"She tried reading recipes and making things, and one day I'd just gotten back to the apartment," Will began laughing at the memory. "She'd thrown something away that she'd made earlier, and she told me that it wasn't the same as it was when I'd made it. She said it was crunchy . . .the recipe called for two eggs. So she added two eggs . . . two whole eggs, shells and all, so yes, it was crunchy. I had to explain to her to crack the eggshells and drain the contents. She'd thought the shells would dissolve when they were heated."

Will stared into his empty glass, still smiling a bit. Memories were becoming anecdotes, and not constant reminders that Tasha was dead. _As long as I don't wallow, I'll always have those memories,_ Will thought, and suddenly recalled something else he'd read not too long ago. Some months before, he'd downloaded the complete collection of William Shakespeare. He'd been concerned that he might have forgotten the eloquent details of his captain's favorite playwright, so he'd begun reading the works again, usually while he was sitting up in bed before retiring.

Several days before Tasha was killed, he'd begun reading the Sonnets. After he left Ten Forward that evening, he accessed his reading pad and scrolled back through them to find the one that came to his mind as he shared funny memories with Geordi LaForge. He found the Sonnet in question and stared at two lines for several minutes. _How apropos,_ he thought. _Captain Picard would agree._

"But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restored and sorrows end."

William Shakespeare, _Sonnets_


	16. Chapter 16

**Future's Present, Chapter 16**

* * *

**From Will Riker's personal log, Stardate 41988.7  
**

_After Tasha's death, I've struggled to recall our last conversations, last interactions. Even some of the most recent memories already have slipped away. I didn't pay enough attention while things were happening. I never thought I needed to. I took so much for granted._

_When we were on Earth, Tasha sometimes fell asleep on the clothes washers and dryers downstairs from the apartment. I found her in that laundry room several times, sacked out on top of the dryer, as if she was lulled to sleep by the noise, the warmth, whatever . . . it was comforting for her._

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, Stardate 41989.1, guest quarters**

"...some of this music will be familiar, and some probably won't be," Will said. "But you're welcome to raid whatever you'd like."

Clare Raymond nodded, already perusing familiar names of musicians she'd known in her former life before she was cryogenically frozen shortly after her death in 1995. The musical artists and groups now felt like old friends, perhaps the only vestige of her old existence. More than 360 years later, her body was located on a disabled space carrier and she was revived along with two others also cryogenically frozen when they died. Now they were trying to find some semblance of footing in a different time.

Picard hadn't the time—nor the patience—to deal with three, clueless visitors to his ship, and was relieved to foist them onto his first officer. Will Riker's experience-based familiarity with the 20th and 21st century culture finally might benefit the ship, Picard reasoned. He had another issue to worry about: The Romulan Empire was re-emerging after decades of absence from the Federation's borders—and in a troubling manner. Outposts on both sides had been destroyed, and both were accusing the other of having done it. Picard suspected a different enemy was threatening both Romulans and Federation.

Now Clare sat in her guest quarters in weird clothes that looked too tight but didn't feel that way. They _did_ feel too revealing. She was certain that everyone aboard the ship secretly thought the 300-something-year-old "homemaker" really needed to take up aerobics again. She felt adrift aboard a ship shooting through the stars, still shaken by knowing that her husband and her kids—and their kids, and their kids after that—were all dead. She had descendants still living in North America, and for the time being, she would be staying with them while getting acclimated.

Commander Riker had been very kind, explaining his own time travel and his possession of not one, but two extensive collections of music that she recognized. Clare knew that the _Enterprise_ had lost its chief of security on a recent mission, and then learned that she had been the second crew member trapped in the 21st century. That fallen officer and Commander Riker were close friends, so it must have been somewhat difficult for him to present her collection of music for Clare to raid.

Of course, Clare hadn't known Natasha Yar. But from what she initially saw of Tasha's music library, Clare liked her immediately: Bruce Springsteen, Led Zeppelin, U2 . . . and many others she didn't recognize.

"I teased Tasha all the time about her choice of music, but truth be told, it wasn't really her choice. She listened to whatever was familiar to her," Will said. "She worked in a bar that played this stuff, so she got used to it and finally liked it. And she also dated one of the bartenders whose musical tastes were horrendous and loud . . . but she liked that, too."

Clare nodded, grateful that he felt comfortable sharing something so personal. "Thank you for sharing this," she said. "I'm sorry about your friend. I wish I could have met her."

Will couldn't help but smile, mostly at his own memories. "I wish you could have met her, too," he replied.

* * *

Will's familiarity with the more mundane, 21st century dealings came in handy during a post-Romulan encounter tour of the ship. Ralph Offenhouse seemed put-off, distracted, too busy trying to figure out how to retrieve his stock market millions, even after learning that his old office collapsed to dust when the World Trade Centers were plane-bombed in 2001, and that the company he worked for no longer existed within another three decades. Having failed to talk Beverly Crusher into a stiff drink, Sonny Clemmons remained his go-lucky self, but Will noticed a few surprised expressions from crewmembers who engaged in conversation with the bigoted, good ol' boy who shared every notion that crossed his mind.

Lt. Louden Kendall, who had traveled back to the 21st century as part of the mission to retrieve Riker and Yar, was now tasked again with historical duties. He had prepared a dossier for all three travelers to aid their acclimation into 24th century life.

Of the three, Clare Raymond came across to Will as the most level-headed, and thus, the most likely to adjust well to her new surroundings. As Will was detailing how to use items within the cabin's bathroom and the sonic shower, he found himself laughing at a memory that he ultimately shared.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

Will shook his head. "Just a 21st century memory," he said. "The toilets here are very different from what you're used to. They take care of everything automatically, so you don't need to worry about jiggling the handle, or looking for a plunger. Considerably easier than the manual toilets you're probably used to. Lt. Yar and I had . . . issues with the toilets of the time. We didn't know how to operate them, or how to deal with them when they didn't work."

Clare smiled in response, but it was the smile of a mother who had boys, who knew exactly what could happen. "Ever have one explode?" she asked.

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "How does a toilet explode?"

"They explode when a 10-year-old gets hold of fireworks, and believes that if he detonates them inside the toilet tank, it won't catch anything on fire and his mother won't hear it," she said, shaking her head. "We had to replace the whole thing."

Will's eyes widened. Even though those boys were long dead, it still was . . . pretty funny, and their mother still was laughing at the long-ago prank. It had cost them a lot of money at the time, but now it was a humorous memory.

"Sounds like something I would have done, if I'd had a toilet tank when I was a kid," Will said.

She shook her head. "Oh, the fun you missed out on," she remarked, smiling wistfully. Her eyes seemed haunted, not only about the past, but also about the present.

* * *

As Will slept that night, he dreamt about those 21st century toilets. He and Tasha hated them. They didn't know how to operate them when they first arrived, causing undue embarrassment for both of them. Weeks after they arrived and realized they were stranded, they moved into the cheapest place they could afford: A low-rent apartment with the _worst _toilet in Kansas City. No amount of scrubbing could remove years of neglected rust in the bowl, and permanent stains streaked what wasn't lime-encrusted.

They tried every available chemical they could get their hands on in a futile attempt to clean it . . . even learning the hard way about desperately dumping bleach and ammonia-containing glass cleaner into the tank at the same time. Fortunately, they realized they'd just created a light vapor of chlorine gas and fled the bathroom before they could inhale it.

Within several weeks of moving into the apartment, their own relationship had become either caustic or nonexistent. They ignored each other, taking turns with laundry and cleaning, generally staying out of each other's way until one early afternoon, when Tasha bolted from the bathroom with wide eyes and an intense declaration: "We have a major problem."

"What now?" he replied.

"You need to see something in the bathroom," she begged, reversing her initial direction—but only after she'd grabbed a newly folded stack of dishtowels that had been left on the kitchen table. Will followed her and discovered she wasn't kidding. Water was overflowing from the toilet bowl and seeping across the tile floor. It had just begun damming up against the bathroom's baseboards when Tasha dashed back with Will in tow.

"Grab more towels or it's going to seep through the walls and drip downstairs," she continued, nodding toward the towel rack on the wall. "Oh shit. . ."

"Is that what you did?" he snapped back. "Nice job."

"No, I was cleaning the toilet!" she protested, nodding to the toilet bowl cleaner and brush that she'd tossed aside earlier. She lifted the top off the tank so she could peer inside. She was an expert at tactical issues and hand-to-hand combat, but was totally perplexed about this latest battle: How to repair a toilet.

"Well, at least it's clean water running all over the floor. So, how do we stop it?" he asked, trying to remain calm as water continued flowing beneath the toilet seat, clinging to the outside of the bowl as it flowed quietly toward the floor. The towels already were waterlogged.

"I tried rattling the handle but it's still going," she replied, exasperated. "What do we do for this?"

"How the hell would I know?" he shouted at her, frustrated because this was happening in the first place. He'd had a long day, and she was about to leave for her own job. They'd been stuck in the 21st century for seven weeks at that point, but it had seemed like years by then. They bickered constantly. Neither of them wanted to deal with anything like this. "There's got to be an override, somewhere!"

She threw up her hands.

"There's a knob at the base," Will remarked. "It's on your side, from the back."

"I see it," she said, kneeling into the river of water cascading across the floor to reach it. "At least I don't have my work clothes on, yet," she muttered. "It's all rusted up, but it's loosening."

"Turn it the other way," he said. "Righty tightie, lefty loosie."

She glared up at him with a quizzically irritated look on her face. "What?"

"Just turn it to the right!" he said. "Once it's off, let's flush it again so it'll drain."

As she contorted herself beneath the toilet tank to turn the valve control, she muttered something under her breath. Now her elbows were wet.

"I didn't quite hear that," he snapped. "Say again, lieutenant?"

Thoroughly irritated, she raised her head from around the side of the toilet, and hissed directly into his face. She'd had more than enough of his bullshit, by then. She no longer cared. "I said, why don't you put your head in the toilet and flush!"

Will abruptly swiped his hand across the top of the overflowing toilet bowl, splashing a substantial amount of water directly across her face. She paused, shocked not only at the cold water but also at the audacity of what he'd just done. _At least I'd just cleaned it,_ she thought, trying not to think of the limey grime, the rust stains that had long-since seeped into what was left of the porcelain.

"Cool off!" he shouted, his anger instantly turning into amusement. She stared back up at him, water dripping off her bangs past her wide-open mouth. She hadn't seen that coming, and was equally outraged when he began laughing.

"It's not funny!" she sputtered.

"Yes, it is!" Will replied, crouching to tuck more towels behind the toilet, trying to keep his voice even. "You need to relax. This is a toilet. It's not a tragedy."

He was looking directly at her when he said that . . . and didn't notice her setting up to return his favor. Her aim was better than his had been. The splash caught him right across the face and chest, drenching his clothing. And now she was smiling, too, even as water dripped from her bangs.

"Now it's funny," she remarked.

"I'm going to call our landlord," he replied. Before we wind up having an all-out water fight, he thought.

"You do that," she said, but they were both smiling a bit, their initial hostility tempered by yet another, toilet-related adventure in the 21st century.

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise**_**, Stardate 42072.8**

Will finally could laugh, even about situations that made him cringe with embarrassment, the twisted topics that generally weren't part of polite conversation aboard the _Enterprise._ Those memories seemed so bittersweet, but still made him laugh aloud as he lay in bed, trying to fall asleep and not having much luck. They'd also become an escape for him, a way to relax from the personnel changes that had occurred within the ship.

Beverly Crusher had been offered—and had accepted—a post with Starfleet Medical. She departed the ship without much fanfare, but arranged for Wesley to finish his school year aboard the _Enterprise._ The kid misses his mother, but he really, really wants this, Will had remarked to Picard, who glowered at the prospect of babysitting Beverly Crusher's son so the gifted young man could get hands-on experience aboard a starship.

Granted, Wes had grown considerably. He wasn't nearly as obnoxious as he'd been when their mission began. He was about the age that Will had been when he left home, so Will understood. It would be up to the Captain to decide Wesley's fate, and Will knew that the past fate of Jack Crusher weighed more heavily on Picard than anyone understood. If anything happened to Wesley . . .

Will cut that thought off. Enough had happened to the _Enterprise_'s senior staff.

* * *

Will's dreams were better, the types of flashbacks that made him smile, even if the incident wasn't funny at the time it happened. And he allowed himself to remember the exhaust fumes, the smashed grapes on the supermarket floor, the bums panhandling outside. He remembered the feel of a real newspaper, the grocery ads, looking for deals, an unforgettable shopping excursion.

He and Tasha had been on Earth about six months by then, and had walked together to the nearest grocery store for supplies. They had plotted sale items, knew how much things would cost, had planned so they wouldn't have too much stuff to carry back to their apartment.

Within 5 minutes of their arrival in the store, they were snapping at each other.

"Why do we need potato chips?" Tasha asked, as a large bag of Lays landed in the bottom of the shopping cart. Will had nabbed them from a display at the end of an aisle as they walked past.

"They're baked!"

"They're really bad for you."

"I want them really bad," he said, not missing a beat.

"There are healthier options than greasy carbohydrates," she replied.

"You say this, and yet you were the one digging cold McWhatevers out of the trash when we first got here."

"We didn't have a choice, then. Now we do. I'd rather us stay as healthy as possible while we're here."

"What's this we stuff? Each of us has preferences, likes and dislikes."

"This security chief is protecting you from ingesting processed shit," she said, grabbing the bag of chips and placing it back onto the shelf. "You'll just feel horrible the next day, plus it's one more thing to carry back to the apartment."

Will abruptly seized the bag bff the shelf, and dropped it back in the cart. "We are not leaving the store without them."

She glared at him. How could he keep arguing with her? She was right, and they both knew it. His stubbornness was irritating. "You're being unreasonable," she said. "I'm only trying to protect your health."

"I outrank you, lieutenant," he snapped back.

"Yes, you do, sir," she replied. Oh, so that's how Will's going to play this, she thought. "And as a ranking officer, you should know better than to eat these."

Will wasn't having it. "Give me the bottom half of the list."

"What for?" she asked.

"I'm getting too aggravated, shopping with you," he replied. "I'd rather get it over with. So you're getting the rest of what's on the top half of the list, I'm getting the bottom half."

She shrugged. "All right, here," she replied, neatly tearing the paper into two portions, and handing him the lower portion. "If that's how you want it to be, here it is. Just don't forget th—."

He whirled around, raised his voice, half-hoping that the rest of the store would be in on this, by then, so she'd be embarrassed enough to back off. "I've got it! I can read! Just shut up!"

Will strode away, taking longer steps than usual, in his angry haste to get away from her.

For the next 10 minutes, she pushed the near-empty cart around to obtain what remained on her half of the ripped list, finally parking the cart in the front of the store near the frozen foods section. Will arrived two minutes later, with the items from his half of the list. But even before Will wordlessly dumped his armful of articles into the grocery cart, Tasha could tell he hadn't gotten the ONE item she really needed.

"Where are the tampons?"

He shot her a sarcastic look.

"They are there on your half of the list," she said, nonchalant. "And since you said you could read and everything else on the list wound up in this cart, tampons should also be in there. And we are not leaving without them."

"So, go get them."

"Why didn't you get them?"

"Because I didn't!" he practically hissed, wanting to shout but hoping to not involve anyone else in the store. "I didn't know if you needed . . . regular or super, or plastic, or _wings_ . . . I don't' know anything, and I don't care to know anything about a feminine hygiene product!"

She didn't bat an eye. "If you were looking at something that had wings, you were looking at the wrong product."

"Exactly! Go get those things yourself! I don't have any idea what you need."

"—afraid of buying tampons!" she exclaimed, but she was smiling, almost laughing. Will was clearly uncomfortable, perceptibly blushing. She left Will standing near the checkout lines with their cart, and returned with an utterly hacked-off expression on her face. Now that she'd had the chance to think about it, the incident no longer was funny to her. It was ridiculous, a grown man too embarrassed to deal with feminine hygiene products.

" . . . goddamn chauvinistic _bullshit,_ Will!" she said, her irritation very evident. "I ought to leave one of these soaking in your cup of coffee tomorrow."

"Please don't," Will remarked, steering the cart into the nearest, open lane for checkout.

After they paid for their groceries, they each carried an equal number of bags and began their walk back to the apartment. Neither of them said much until they were stuck at the stoplight on Broadway. The weather was warm for May, sticky, threatening storms that usually crept up at that time of year. Broadway was a long light for pedestrians, and Will finally muttered what he'd meant to ask there in the store.

"Future reference," he said, barely audible over the passing traffic. "Brand, quantity, specifics."

"Generic multipack," she replied.

"Got it, Will replied.

Deanna had laughed outright when he told her about his dream the following morning. Despite himself, he laughed, too.

* * *

**Will Riker's personal log****, Stardate 42638.3**

_Deanna was right. She always is. Life goes on. __The Enterprise has traveled on many missions since Tasha Yar's death, and although I still miss her, I no longer am reminded of her absence everywhere I turn. _

_I actually visited the __Enterprise's arboretum, mostly because Katherine Pulaski goaded me into going. She insisted that I literally needed to wake up and smell the roses._

_I hadn't wanted to go, at first. I thought flowers always were blooming on a ship where plants in windows are exposed to starlight. But I guess they adjust the exposure depending on the plant's needs. Today, the Earth roses were blooming. Kate was so giddy about the roses, I couldn't __not__ go._

_When the weather was nice enough in Kansas City, Tasha and I used to walk to Loose Park, up the hill from where we lived in Kansas City. It was a huge, public park in a ritzy neighborhood, great place for jogging, people watching, joining in someone else's disc golf game or just goofing off. _

_I remember one afternoon, we walked through the park's rose garden, mostly because it was there and we happened to be there, too. The garden was gorgeous, hundreds of varieties of roses kept up by the city in a circular-shaped garden with stone trellises. I think Tasha actually enjoyed that, just walking around, looking at all the roses in bloom that May. _

_I asked Tasha which one was her favorite, and she said, "Oh, I like the climbing ones. They stay grounded, but they go places."_

_There are several varieties of climbing roses in the arboretum. I wonder if Tasha ever made it in there before she died. _

_The Enterprise does allow butterflies and other, non-stinging insects to pollinate the arboretum's flowers. I was relieved to learn that their insect selection did not include mosquitoes, and had to swallow another memory of Tasha dabbing some 21st century, anti-itch concoction on multiple bites I'd sustained all over my face and neck after I was eaten alive near Kansas City._

_I think Miles O'Brien likes a botanist assigned to the arboretum. I doubt he was in there today only to enjoy the flowers blooming. He's spent quite a bit of his off-duty time there, and was there with her as a guest for the first wedding every performed aboard this ship: Julio Barajas and Suravi Bhat were married in the arboretum last week by Captain Picard. _

_Life's moving on._

* * *

_**USS **__**Enterprise,**_** Will Riker's cabin, Stardate 42640.1**

Wedded bliss may have begun for the Barajas couple, but the honeymoon ended for Will Riker and KC the cat, who had been co-habiting since Tasha Yar's death. The Era of Tolerance faded by Day 62, when KC decided that Will's cabin wasn't big enough for the two of them. But Will, still mourning the loss of his friend, didn't want to give up so easily.

KC had been adopted as a kitten by Tasha while she and Will were stranded in the 21st century. She'd carried him back from The Rec beneath her jacket, having rescued him from sharing the grisly death that had befallen his littermates beneath the wheels of cars passing on Troost Avenue. By the time Will had arrived back from work, the kitten had bonded with his rescuer. Will had learned better than to argue with Tasha over something like this, so he relented and allowed the cat to stay. After the _Enterprise_'s rescue team located them, they returned to the 24th century, bringing the cat with them.

After Tasha's death, Will couldn't bring himself to do anything else but allow KC to live in his own cabin. He had no idea what else to do with the cat. They'd existed in a mutual state of disinterest for months on Kansas City, and Will figured the same would be true aboard the _Enterprise_.

But KC, now a young adult, had other ideas. He shredded the furniture, shed mounds of hair on Will's bed and hacked numerous hairballs throughout the cabin—usually in places where he knew Will would be walking barefoot. The corridor between Will's bedroom and the cabin's shower became KC's favorite hairball target because it always elicited the best results when The Man found the hairball (usually after it had been there awhile, so it was cold by the time it squished up between The Man's toes).

Will made a good faith attempt to take care of the cat. On the first night of KC's cohabitation in Will's cabin, he replicated up the standard "Cat Supplement". KC's response was less than enthusiastic.

What the hell is this? KC thought, glancing up at Will, feeling utterly ripped off. What happened to the meat scraps you used to drop off the counter when we were all living in The Other Place that had sunlight and didn't vibrate?

KC refused to eat it, waiting instead for The Man to prepare something more palatable. But then The Man went to the wall, spoke at it, and _got a plate of food for himself!_ The cat had a relatively long memory, and knew that Before, The Man always spilled something delicious off the countertop when he prepared his own food. But now, _nothing _was spilled. Nothing was prepared. It just _appeared_ . . . and it tasted _awful._

KC yowled. He whined and begged, baying plaintively as Will shoveled his own dinner, muttering things the cat didn't comprehend—though KC did understand the context.

"You don't like it? Tough!" Will muttered. "I've already consulted Sickbay, and when you get hungry enough, you'll eat."

After one day of not eating anything—and not even finding anything that he could forage in the spotless cabin—KC got hungry enough to choke down the mushy meal that evening. It sat in his stomach like a brick. He took a nap, felt better and began plotting his revenge. He'd been through this before with The Man, who had argued with his beloved master when they still lived in that Other Place.

_Dry food is cheaper,_ The Man had remarked. _Canned food is better,_ the rescuer had insisted. And so it went. KC choked down dried-up chunks of grain-laden gristle when he didn't get The Good Stuff from his rescuer.

KC wasn't a human being, but he'd become an astute judge of human quirks. He got used to the cooler temperature in the cabin—actually, KC appreciated it. He still longed for the warmth and comfort he felt snuggling up to his rescuer, but knew instinctively that she wasn't coming back. One evening The Man had come to the cabin by himself, spent the night, removed items and then removed the cat.

Now KC was living in Will's cabin, and there were so many things to play with . . . none of which The Man appreciated as much as the cat did. KC figured out quickly that The Man liked decorations in his cabin. KC loved launching himself at tapestries hanging on the wall. And he liked shredding the furniture, and he enjoyed the little table bearing small things that could be knocked off over and over again.

As far as KC was concerned, The Man was putting those tiny figures back on the tabletop squares just so a cat could swat them to the floor, again. It was such great fun. The Man didn't seem to appreciate it as much, but KC enjoyed those activities thoroughly. _I knock them on the floor, he picks them up again, and again, and again, _KC thought. _He's not too smart, but he can be a lot of fun when he tries._

* * *

**Will Riker's cabin, Stardate 42639.1**

"You know, even though it's been more than two months, I sometimes do feel like Tasha is still living here with me," Will remarked, staring at the shredded pillows propped on the sofa, and claw marks plowed into the bay window chair. "Although, I'll give Tasha some credit. She _never_ slept on my head. And even with her tendency toward leaving things where they happened to fall, she never left slimy objects on the carpet."

Despite herself, Deanna Troi began laughing. It wasn't very professional, and they both knew it. But she couldn't help herself. First he'd relayed the story about his grocery store flashback, and now his sense of humor was returning further, with his commentary on the status of his cabin.

She had stopped by his cabin after he'd announced that he'd found another home for KC: Lt. Louden Kendall had agreed to adopt him—mostly due to the near-constant pressure from his son Samuel, who had heard the tale of Commander Riker and The Cat.

Will's timing had been deliberate. He'd stopped by Kendall's cabin yesterday, at a time he knew Samuel would be home from school and would overhear the whole story. Kendall saw through Riker's plan immediately, but he nodded, smiled and agreed to relieve his commanding officer of the relative burden of harboring an animal.

Kendall stalled the deal by one day by insisting on speaking with "the missus" first. He knew Anja wouldn't mind, but he certainly knew better than to spring a live surprise on her. He also figured that if Commander Riker could survive the past several weeks with a resident cat, he could last one more night.

"Every morning, I wake up with cat fur in my mouth, and with cold, slimy things squishing up between my toes," Will continued, in typical, deadpan fashion while Deanna struggled to maintain her professional composure. "I put my belongings where I want them to stay, straighten things up, and leave for the bridge. And every evening, I return to find that a feline-triggered bomb detonated inside my cabin. Nothing is where I've left it. I can't figure out why."

At that very instant, KC came crashing across the middle deck of the chess table—his favorite target—sending the pieces flying, again. Will didn't miss a beat, didn't even look over his shoulder at the latest, cabin casualties. The sound was familiar to him.

"Checkmate for the cat," he said, then raised both eyebrows at Deanna's amused expression. "I'm at a loss regarding this discipline issue. And _you _think it's funny!"

The chess pieces thoroughly scattered, KC batted a few of them around the floor. He made sure to knock several beneath the couch, where the small space was difficult for The Man to reach. It was so entertaining, watching The Man sprawling on the floor while attempting to reach beneath the furniture. There, KC had hoarded numerous treasures: Chess pieces, four stylus markers, shiny rocks that had been atop a display shelf before The Man had put everything away, and wooden beads ripped from a wall tapestry.

KC had great fun launching himself at the tapestry, digging his claws in and hanging there, swinging. But then the tapestry began falling apart, and one evening The Man took it down. KC was relatively miffed that it was gone, so he began shredding the stuffing from the decorative, couch pillows instead—not only as a pastime, but also to protest the removal of the tapestry.

KC understood more of the Standard language than The Man gave him credit for. As he climbed atop the window seat, KC began popping his claws against the upholstery, glancing in the direction of the humans whom he knew were talking about him. Deanna could sense smugness from the cat.

"I think you'll miss KC more that you're admitting," Deanna said, knowing Will _never_ would admit it.

Will stared at her. He couldn't wait for the cat to be _gone._

"I doubt it."


	17. Chapter 17

**Future's Present, Chapter 17**

* * *

_**USS ****Enterprise**_**, Stardate 42686.6**

A recorded "comm letter" from the Tobins arrived at a perfect time for Will Riker, who was reeling from the _Enterprise_'s last mission.

Will's father, a civilian strategic attaché, had been aboard the _Enterprise_ as part of a Starfleet mission to an outlying system. Will hadn't seen his father in years, and hadn't appreciated his presence, at all. The whole situation was exhausting, even after Will finally bested his old man in a grudge-match of anbo-jyutsu. Will still was leery that his father was being so apologetic for all those years of crap that Will had been put through as a boy. _This has to have been a put on, _Will thought. _He's buttering me up for something. _

Will had been fed up enough to run away from home at age 15, choosing Starfleet over living anywhere near his dad. Now he was First Officer of the best ship in the fleet, and even then his dad couldn't resist gigging him a few times. It hadn't been hard for fellow _Enterprise_ officers to see where Will Riker got some of his suave charm. Kyle Riker definitely had a way with the ladies.

Will knew that, but even so, he'd been shocked to hear that Katherine Pulaski, of all people, had once dated his father. Will spent several uncomfortable minutes squirming in his Ten Forward seat until he heard the whole, sad tale from Kate. Then he felt sorry for her, and almost felt sorry for his dad that things hadn't worked out between him and Kate Pulaski. . . but not quite. Kyle Riker liked being right all the time, and Kate suffered no fools. The relationship hadn't worked out between Kyle and Kate, but still she told Will point-blank that he needed to cut his father some slack.

In spite of the tense several days he'd just spent with Kyle Riker aboard the _Enterprise,_ Will had been overjoyed to receive a communication from the Tobin family. They were doing well, assigned to Puget Station on the North American Pacific Coast. Both Gary and Kim were fulfilling an acclimation assignment there before moving—they hoped—to the Midwest. They were all saddened to hear about Tasha's death and hoped Will was all right. The girls were catching up in school. Math was still an issue for Chaney, Gary quipped, "but that apple didn't fall too far from her dad's tree, I'm afraid."

Chaney didn't particularly care about math, anyway. She was more passionate about what she saw in the water when her biology class went on a field trip onto Puget Sound.

"…tail came down into the water, like, WHAM, and then we _all_ got wet!" Chaney was in her element, telling Will all about her first encounters with orcas. She now was an unabashed orca fanatic, and knew she'd find an understanding listener with Will Riker, who'd already told her that he'd literally grown up watching orcas playing in his Alaskan backyard.

So the Tobins were OK, acclimating quickly. They had even met Clare Raymond and were staying in touch with her. She was doing great, living outside of Indianapolis, getting her teaching credentials so she could be a history instructor for elementary-age children.

Will rubbed his eyes. He missed Alaska. He missed . . . feeling connected to anything. He felt numb, almost adrift. He initially brushed it aside, believing at first it was a fleeting bout of homesickness. But Deanna still sensed it the next morning when he arrived for the daily briefing. She wasn't the only one who detected his disconnect.

"You could do with taking a break, Will," Picard said, straight out, just seconds after he'd summoned Will into his ready room. "When was the last time you had shore leave for Earth?"

"Aside from being yanked away from the ship in a time warp, I don't remember, sir," Will replied.

"Take some time on your own terms," Picard said. "One week, that's an order. The next shuttle for Earth leaves in five hours, and I expect you to be on it."

Will thought about arguing, believing that it might help him look good. It would give the impression that I'm willing to work hard, he thought, even when I'm fried. Ultimately he kept his mouth shut, and later felt glad that he did. He was slipping into a burnout.

* * *

**Two days later, outside Unalaska, Alaska, on Earth, June, 2365**

Anne Demianchuk was a character. Pushing 60 years of age, Will's aunt had long refused to completely grow up. She was practical, both in manner and in her dress, preferring the rugged outdoors look to the fashions of the day. She kept her shoulder-length, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail most of the time, and laughed off her friends' urging that she dye it to appear younger.

_Why would I want to look any younger than I am? I've EARNED my look!_ She liked to say, and liked to add, _If people don't like me the way I am, then the hell with them!_. Anne and her sister Elizabeth had grown up on Unalaska, where many generations had fished nearby waters. But like many of its younger inhabitants, Betty had moved away to go to school near Anchorage, where she later married and had a son—Will. Anne had grown up never wanting to leave, so she stayed. She couldn't imagine living anywhere else, so she didn't. She loved her home, her gardens, her career teaching biology and life sciences to children living in Unalaska's school district.

Will always liked Anne, listened to her, tended to trust her honest counsel. She told it like it was. Anne had never married, and understood Will's wishes to hold off on settling down. The closest she'd ever come to having children was adopting multiple animals. That hadn't changed.

"How many cats do you have, now?" Will said, glancing out the back window at the mountains ringing Dutch Harbor.

"Three," Anne replied. "Don't let any of them outside. I had one get nabbed last month by an eagle, right off that porch."

"It flew up to the house?" Will replied. That was highly unusual. Bald eagles were huge, with wingspans of more than two meters. They weren't afraid of much that was smaller than they were, but they tended to avoid people and also the places where people lived.

"Oh, yes!" Anne said. "Those are some ballsy birds. There's a whole family of them living behind that grove of trees. You can see their nests if you walk out to the beach and look east. I will say, though, it missed the juiciest morsel of the cat bunch."

She nodded toward an obtunded, tiger-striped cat that had sprawled onto the nearby kitchen floor. "Kanuck was on top of the bench, Tigger was lounging below it—mostly because he's too fat to climb onto the bench. Kanuck made an easier grab, I guess."

"I wasn't aware you were feeding the birds with your pets," Will quipped.

"Not deliberately," Anne said, crouching to scratch Tigger's ears. "Notice that I'm keeping them all inside, now."

Will stared at Tigger. "He looks like a watermelon with legs," he said. "What are you feeding him?"

"Whatever I don't eat," she replied. "He won't eat that cat supplement, so I give him the good stuff. Who's taking care of your cat while you're here?"

"Another family adopted him. It was time."

"From what I know of your history with cats, you must have really cared about your friend to have taken her cat in like that," she said.

"Wouldn't have been right for him to live anywhere else, until after he trashed my cabin," Will said. "He needed a good home with someone else."

"I'm sorry about what happened to your friend."

"Tasha."

Anne nodded. "Sounds pretty brutal."

"Well, it was brutal," Will admitted. He never worried about sharing things with Anne, who'd become his de-facto mother after her older sister died. Anne and Will's father had never gotten along, so Will didn't get to see Anne as much as he would have liked while he was growing up. "Line of duty deaths are always sobering, but this was just. . .awful. I feel like I've lost a sibling."

"You've already lost a sibling," Anne replied, her voice wistful.

Will stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"Your mother was pregnant when she died," she said. "I'm sorry, I thought you knew."

He shook his head. "I didn't."

"Kyle didn't tell you?"

"No."

"That figures," Anne shook her head. "Why would Kyle tell you anything about anything."

Will sighed.

"Betty was five months pregnant when she died in the accident," she said. "Kyle didn't even name the baby, which disgusted all of us. The baby deserved so much more than the anonymity of going to the grave without any record of having existed."

"I thought my mom's ashes were scattered at sea," Will said.

"She was," she said. "There was no memorial stone. It was a figure of speech. If there had been a stone, we would have insisted that the baby have a name. The only reason I knew she was pregnant was because Betty had told me, and after Kyle was . . . I know he was grief-stricken, but come on! So I petitioned her autopsy record, and it's there."

Will looked away, not sure what to say for a few seconds. "I still have Tasha's ashes," he finally remarked.

Anne stared at him, a mixture of surprise and disgust on her face. "What _for_?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"You've had an urn in your cabin since she died _months_ ago?" Anne stated.

"Yes, until now," Will replied. "I brought them back with me. I'm thinking I'll scatter them here, maybe."

Anne let out a deep breath. "That's a relief," she muttered. "And here I thought you were more irrational than I am. I was so mad at your father for scattering Betty in the Sound. He didn't ask us, he just did it. No one else in our family has been dumped out there, and that was upsetting. She's out there all alone."

"I thought you didn't believe in the afterlife," Will said. "What difference does it really make?"

"You're the one to talk. You really can't let Tasha go, even though you need to," Anne interjected.

"You couldn't let Mom go, either," Will replied. "I remember you saying how furious you were that Dad buried her at sea."

"She wouldn't have wanted that," Anne said. "She got sick every time she was on the Sound. She got horribly seasick, Will. She would turn lichen green anytime she went on a boat. Kyle took the easy way out. I had wanted her ashes to be scattered near Unalaska."

"Near you, you mean."

"Well, yes!"

"Dad told me she used to walk for hours on the beach near Valdez, looking out at the whales on the Sound."

"Oh, she did do that," Anne nodded. "She did loved seeing the whales breach, and the orcas. I think she fed those seals, too...don't tell anyone, I know it's illegal. But I'd wanted her here in Unalaska. Then again, I'd also wanted her to never have married your father, but she was in love with him the second she laid eyes on him. I knew the instant she called me and told me she'd met someone, she was a goner."

Will groaned.

"Really!" Anne continued. "When she went off and eloped. I was so mad I couldn't see straight. She didn't bother to tell me until she got back from the courthouse because she knew what I'd say. But she wanted me to know that she and Kyle were leaving that very day on their honeymoon to climb Mt. McKinley, of all places. No acclimatization, plus they got married! I was furious."

"About the lack of acclimatization, or the marriage?"

"Both!" Anne exclaimed. "My God, going from sea level to how many thousand meters? That's crazy! But evidently they weren't too sick from that altitude change because she swore that's where you were conceived, at one of the camp stops—,"

Will clamped his hands over his ears. "I don't want to hear about this!"

Anne shook her head, wryly smiling at him. "Why are you so uncomfortable hearing that your parents had sex, when I _know_ you've laid more pipe than that petroleum museum piece snaking through half of Alaska?"

He ignored the latter half of her statement. "She didn't tell you that she was getting married, but she told you about. . ."

"Well, not until she knew she was pregnant with you, no."

"All right, so tell me this," Will said. "With Mom's ashes, would you have rather kept her with you, or scattered her in the Sound like Dad did?"

"Neither," Anne said. "I would have brought her closer to me, and I then I would have let her go. I would have hated it, but I would have done that for her. You need to do the same thing for your friend. You need to honor her by letting her go. And I hope you do that on this shore leave, because who knows when your next one will be. I don't know much about starships, but I was just thinking . . . what if you had an accident out there—a minor one, but the impact was bad enough to jar everyone on the ship . . . what if that urn falls over in your cabin, and spills all over the carpet?"

"Anne!"

"I'm serious!"

He stared at her. "You're just as sick and twisted as Tasha was," he finally said, acknowledging that even Anne's unusual logic was sound in this case. "She would have liked you."

"I've been a biology teacher for 35 years. Of course I have a sick sense of humor," Anne replied. "And I'm sure I would have liked Tasha, too. And that's why I know that you need to let her go."

He stared out the window at everything surrounding them, but saw nothing.

"You know I'm right," she replied.

"Yeah, I know you're right."

* * *

The next afternoon, Will took the transit from the Aleutians, disembarked in Valdez and wound up aboard a ferry motoring across Prince William Sound. He stood outside for a long time as the wind whipped his hair around and sea water occasionally sprayed past the side of the boat. He was looking by sight for that perfect spot, and then he pulled the small urn from his backpack.

He was about unseal the urn and turn it over when he felt a firm tap on his shoulder. The ferry's deckhand stood, dour-faced, nodding toward the urn in Will's hands.

"Sir, if you're burying someone at sea, would you mind doing that when the wind is at your back?"

Will stared at him. The connotation sank in. _How could I have been so stupid?_ he thought, also aware that if there were an afterlife, Tasha would be laughing hysterically at him, right now. _You were about to dump me overboard while the wind was blowing in your face. Nice!_

He walked across the heaving deck of the ferry and easily found a secluded spot near the stern, with the mountains in the background and the wind flipping his coat collar up against the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and when he felt like it was time he broke the seal of the urn, held it over the edge of the stern, and overturned it into the undulating water.

Even over the muted noise of the ferry's engine, Will heard the ashes falling into the water, but didn't look as they disappeared beneath the surface. He allowed the urn to fall from his hands, as well, plopping into the water and vanishing just as fast. He opened his eyes seconds later but didn't look down. Instead, he looked up toward the volcanic mountains spiking up from the Sound.

A child's voice broke through his reverie. A mother and her young son were riding across the Sound. They were traveling light, with only a backpack between them. Will figured they probably were local, probably took this trip several times a week. But the child was nonetheless curious about what he'd just seen Will doing, and with the unabashed interest of an innocent youth, he asked his mother about it.

"Why did that man dump dirt into the water?"

"It wasn't dirt," the mother replied. "It was ashes."

"Ashes from what?"

"Shh," the mother said, keeping her voice low enough that she had to stand close to the boy so he could hear her over the wind and engine. "I don't know. Someone he loved, probably."

"What happened to the someone?" the boy replied, also keeping his voice low, sensing that the topic was a secret better discussed in hushed tones.

"I don't know."

Will looked out to the water again, just in time to see several surfacing figures. Orcas, a small pod of them. At least six adults, two juveniles, swimming alongside the ferry only 50 meters away. Will couldn't recall the last time he'd seen orcas come so close to any boat while swimming with their young. _A family,_ he thought. _They don't seem troubled by anything at all._

At the time, he didn't understand why he buried Tasha in Alaska. It felt right, but he didn't understand why. He never felt regretful, never wanted to take her back and scatter her into any other winds, or into space. It felt absolutely right, that her final resting place was Prince William Sound off the coast of Alaska in North America, on Earth. Even the next day, it felt right.

He had dreams that she finally was at peace.

* * *

**Will Riker's personal log, recorded the next day**

_In my dream, I was walking on the shore near my home in Valdez, down the rocky shores, springtime, probably midnight, but the sun still is shining at that time of night, here. _

_Visitors to Alaska often get confused by that. They aren't used to falling asleep in the middle of the 'day'. The sun doesn't set here, at night. There's always a gray light in the early hours. The light is dim, chilly but not too cold. It's my favorite time in Alaska, when the midnight sun illuminates everything in a dusky light, but everything seems so clear to me. I sat on one of those big chunks of granite that juts up from amongst the polished stones that have tumbled their way across generations of tides and seismic activity._

_Even from the beach, I could see and hear orcas breaching and playing in the Sound, almost feel the humidity in air laden also with that irreplicatable scent of the ocean's edge. I was home. And I glanced to my side and Tasha was sitting on the rocks beside me, her arms folded against the relative chill of the breeze whipping in from Prince William Sound. _

"_You were right about bringing a jacket," she said, glancing at me with that look she so often had in Kansas City . . . so much behind it, a mix of familiarity and teasing, acceptance of each other and our quirks. Her small frame was virtually buried by the jacket—my jacket, the one I'd worn while we were on Earth. True to form, she'd finally commandeered it just as she had two of my flannel shirts some 355 years ago. _

_I couldn't resist reaching toward her, and I could feel one of her arms embracing me in return. She felt real, and that was good enough for me. She was warm, leaning against me. Safe._

"_Anyway, this is home," I'd said to her._

_She rested the side of her head against my upper chest as she looked toward the sea. "Thank you for bringing me here," she replied. "It's beautiful."_

"_I have so much to tell you," I said.  
_

_She turned her face up so she could look at me. Her expression was honest. "There's a lot you need to know, too."_

_And that's when I woke up. In my dreams before, I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want to jostle myself from the comfort of wishful thinking, of believing that Tasha wasn't dead. But this time when I woke, I wanted to get up, because I knew there was something important that I needed to do._

* * *

_One to two more chapters to go. Thanks for reading, and for your patience!_

_Ali  
_


	18. Chapter 18

**_Hello again . . . it's the itinerant Alilit thanking everyone for their patience. Here are the final two installments of Future's Present. . . I figured I'd end this series with a bang. Enjoy!_**

**_Ali  
_**

* * *

**Future's Present, Chapter 18**

* * *

**At the Tobin home, Port Townsend, Washington State, on Earth**

"I only have one, real regret about something I didn't do while I was stranded in the 21st century," Gary Tobin said, resting his forearms against the porch railing behind his house. Will Riker stood beside him, relaxed for the first time in a long time, enjoying his shore leave. Gary had replicated a beer for each of them.

"What's your regret?" Will asked, half-figuring that Gary would lament that bottled beer wasn't available in the 24th century.

"I regret that I didn't take my daughters to Disney World."

Will looked sideways, smiling a bit. Even he had heard of Disney World, the original, North American theme park that had grown into an expansive display devoted to beloved characters. Although many of the classic, Disney motion pictures remained in existence in the 24th century, the park itself was gone, sliced in half by the Xindi weapon in 2153.

Most people living in the 24th century recognized Disney characters, and some had even seen the ancient motion pictures at film festivals. Although Disney World had flourished for almost a century up until World War III, the theme park's existence was obliterated by the Xindi. In their decade of being stranded in the 21st century, Gary and Kim Tobin learned all about Disney World from the incessant advertisements, peer pressure and cultural exposure. Their daughters heard about it from school buddies who had gone to visit.

"Chaney used to say, 'Daddy can we go to Disney World?'," Gary said. "And I thought it was kind of cute, that she wanted to go. I figured if Kim and I had been stuck in the 21st century for as long as we had by then, eventually we'd take the girls to Disney World and Florida and the beaches, and all that Midwest tourist stuff. We had thought about it. But it was so expensive, and Piper was still little. So we were going to wait a couple more years and then go when they'd both be old enough to remember it."

Gary shook his head. "We never did go," he added. "And I knew what was going to happen to the place. I might have sucked at history, but I remembered the Xindi attack. Kim remembered it, too. Honestly, it would have been a little creepy to have been there, knowing that the whole place was gonna be vaporized in a hundred and fifty years."

He took another sip of beer. "But now that we're back, and Disney's not there anymore, we should have gone while we had the chance, you know?" he remarked. "I mostly shrug my shoulders at all the other things we could have done while we were there, but that's one place that I have genuine regrets, that I didn't take my little girls to see a place like Disney World. How crazy is that?"

"It's the most sane thing I've heard in a while," Will replied, nodding toward the harbor. "I'm glad Chaney's found whales to help occupy herself. I used to watch them and listen to them for hours at a time."

"She's logged at least that much time," Gary said. "Did I tell you she's signed up for a camp in Hawaii? She's doing the gray whale migration tagging."

Will smiled broadly. "What a great opportunity!" he said. "I didn't know they let kids her age go out and tag whales."

"They do," Gary replied. "She's in the youngest group, but she had to quality for it, which meant she needed to get good grades in calculus. She busted her ass and pulled it off. And Piper . . . you'd never know she was born three centuries ago. She's acclimated so well, you can't even tell. Every once in a while, she asks questions about places and people who don't exist anymore. She talks about Tasha, sometimes. We've got her playing soccer, and that's when she usually asks, and we need to remind her about what happened."

"What'd she say?" Will asked.

"Not much," Gary replied. "She understands what 'dead' is, but has a child's comprehension. Chaney took it hard. I still remember what she said just after we told her. She wanted answers, and we told her what we knew, that she was killed in the line of duty but we didn't know anything at that time about what had happened. And Chaney said, 'why would anyone want to kill her, when everyone loved her?'."

Will shook his head. "I was there when it happened, and even I can't answer that one."

* * *

**At the Tobin home**

Will had spent part of his leave with his aunt at her home in Unalaska, on the Aleutian Island chain, and was having a great day near Seattle, visiting with the Tobin family. Gary and Kim Tobin been rescued along with Will and Natasha Yar from a time warp to the 21st century. Now, both former officers from the _USS Cheyenne_ were assigned to Puget Station while their young family acclimated. Will was glad to see the family, glad to catch up, pleased that they'd settled in an area with a focus on history.

"The counselor assigned to us here on Earth recommended Port Townsend when we got assigned to Puget Station," Kim explained. "It has a strong but realistic school curriculum, it's close to where we're stationed. We liked it immediately. We're thinking about staying here, even after our Starfleet service ends in five years."

Will understood that: He liked the community, too. The Tobin's daughters, Chaney and Piper, especially enjoyed their ready access to shoreside adventures, not unlike those Will had enjoyed as a boy growing up in Alaska.

Will stayed overnight with the Tobins, falling asleep on their spacious, living room couch. It was deep and comfortable—more so even than the bed in his cabin on the _Enterprise_. The Tobin girls had learned 3-dimensional chess and were challenging each other, giggling every once in a while, as Will drowsed off, exhausted by his Earthside travels.

With the girls' voices echoing through his head, Will dreamed he was back in Kansas City, at the Tobin's home there, when they were all stranded more than 350 years in the past. Will, Tasha and the Tobins spent much of their spare time together, linked by their common history of being from the future. But Gary had found a board game that focused on cultural trivia, and soon they all were playing it together.

"It's frustrating, but I'd rather be frustrated and learn a few things than go out in this society and sound like an idiot," Gary had remarked during one game, as he shuffled Trivial Pursuit question/answer cards for the upcoming round. They all knew a few of the answers, mostly for trivia that wasn't based on the 20th century. But then there were surprises.

"Rolling Stones, _Gimme Shelter_," Tasha replied within three seconds of receiving one of those questions.

"Unfair advantage! You get PAID to listen to this!" Will exclaimed.

"I'll take every advantage I can get," she replied. "Give me my pie, please."

He grumbled.

"Hey," Kim remarked. "You knew the one about that oil spill."

"The _Exxon Valdez_," Will replied. "Absolutely, I know that one. You know, even in the 24th century, you still can dig up pockets of oil along the beaches of Prince William Sound. Nearly 400 years have passed, and it's still there."

"Unfair advantage! You grew up there," Tasha remarked, her tone teasing.

"You took advantage, I'll take advantage."

"Plus, you knew the question about . . . who was that?"

"Elvis Presley," Will replied.

"I have no idea who Elvis Presley is," Tasha said.

"Was," Gary said. "He's been dead for awhile, by now."

"They all sound the same after awhile," Kim replied.

"Oh no, there's only one Elvis," Gary said. "The King."

"Didn't someone see him at a Burger King after he died?" Kim remarked. "Or they saw his likeness on a piece of toast?"

"No, that was Jesus," Gary replied.

Tasha stared at them, somewhat shocked. _"What?"_

"The toast icons," Gary remarked. "Sign of the times we live in. People are desperate for signs and miracles. They see things they want to see. A couple of years back, someone's bread popped out of the toaster, and they saw Jesus in the burn pattern, so they called a priest."

"They called the news, first," Kim said.

"Yeah, that," Gary added. "They called the news, they called a priest, suddenly there's a line of folks praying to a piece of toast. People here see him everywhere. He's on tree trunks and appearing in soap scum on showers, which I suppose is kind of insulting to the son of God, to be depicted through soap scum."

"And grilled cheese," Kim added. "Remember that one?"

"Oh, yeah, was grilled cheese a couple of years ago," Gary replied, deadpan. "That's right."

"Unbelievable," Will remarked.

* * *

"How could you NOT know about Charlie Parker?" Will was aghast that Tasha knew nothing about such an incredible musician. "He was one of the jazz legends, and he's from Kansas City!"

"How could _you _not know the Rolling Stones?"

"Because I'm a Beatles man."

She stared at him and sighed.

"Surely you know about The Beatles . . ."

"Everyone knows The Beatles," Tasha replied. "I'd heard about them in EarthCiv. I always figured you'd be more of a Stones man."

"Nope," Will replied. "Paul McCartney's still alive and touring. We should catch a concert if he comes to Kansas City."

Kim smirked. "I'd like to see what the tickets would cost for that."

"Hey, it'd be worth it," Will replied. "If we ever make it back to our century, to be able to say we saw one of the musical greats in person, and not on a Holodeck."

"If we do get back, I don't think I'd be going near a Holodeck anytime soon," Gary replied.

"Why's that?"

"We were walking adjacent to the Holodeck Trainer on the _Cheyenne_ when we were yanked back here."

"So were we," Tasha said. "On the _Enterprise_, though."

"Coincidence?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Will replied. "If we're in the Holodeck, I'd like to know why the door didn't open up."

Gary shrugged, gently tossing the dice across the board. "We tried the same thing. It didn't open for us, either," he said, moving his circular pie, then shaking his head when he saw his destination.

Will knew that Gary never liked landing on green, because it reminded him how much he didn't know about sports, even though sporting events were on television all the time at the bar he managed. Gary didn't particularly care about what was on television, but he learned quickly that 21st century patrons appreciated having it on in the background. Since most of what they wanted to watch revolved around football, basketball or baseball, he didn't know a lot about anything else.

"Ah, shit!" Gary muttered. "Here comes another question about figure skating or gymnastics or golf . . . I'm completely screwed!"

Will hadn't been able to suppress a grin during that game, nor now, as he awoke on the Tobin's couch. He lay awake for several minutes, lost in thought.

* * *

**Anchorage Station, Alaska, the next afternoon**

Natasha Yar's absence still was evident, but not as pressing. Though the Tobins didn't like it, they had all gotten used to Tasha not being around. Even Will had grown accustomed to it, though it felt like a betrayal to her memory. Barely a year had passed since she was killed in the line of duty, and now Will was facing another loss: Realizing that much of Tasha's family background might be lost to history.

By noon the next day, Will had left Seattle and flew back to his aunt's home in Unalaska. She lived in the midst of the Aleutian Island Chain, which required several shuttle hops. He stopped first in Anchorage, then boarded another shuttle two hours later that went to Unalaska. As that second shuttle took off, it arced east over the Chugach Mountains. Will could see Prince William Sound glistening in the distance.

The three days earlier, he'd buried Tasha in Prince William Sound, scattering her ashes in the water from one of many ferries that passed through the area. Tasha had been one of Will's best friends, and he'd been devastated by her death. Knowing she had no other family, he felt compelled to bring her ashes to his own home, and had laid her to rest in the same location where his own mother was buried years ago.

He had no regrets about doing that. But since that instant, he'd had nagging feelings of unfinished business. Memories of a dream he'd had last night tugged at him, unlike any dream he'd had before.

"_There's a lot you need to know, too," _Tasha had told him, in his dream. She'd been standing next to him on the Valdez beach, shivering in the Alaskan coastal breeze. He'd reached out to touch her, pulled her close. She felt warm, real. Will couldn't recall a more realistic dream, and that's what nagged at him.

'_There's a lot I need to know', _he thought._ What the hell was that? Where'd that come from? What were you trying to tell me?_

Will tried to explain it away as wishful thinking, but that dream—and what Tasha had said to him—remained in the forefront of his mind even after he awakened that morning, suddenly compelled to learn more about the background of a dead officer, about her family.

Shortly before she died, Tasha had shown Will several photos of her family. Those images had been taken by a Federation journalist once assigned to cover her homeworld of Turkana IV. Rustam Ilienko was able to escape the colony as it was being overrun by cadres, and later fostered Tasha Yar after she was able to escape from Turkana nine years later. Ilienko had worked with Tasha's parents, and had saved those photos he had taken of her family before Turkana fell.

Will remembered how Tasha recognized her brother, her mother, her grandmother. She had been five years old when they died, and knew her relationship to them, but didn't know their names. She knew her father only because Ilienko had identified him for her. Tasha had told Will only one name: Alek, her older brother. The other faces remained nameless: Recognizeable, but unidentifiable by name. Tasha had known them only as "mother, grandmother, aunt, uncle".

_What were their names?_ Will thought, and immediately was frustrated when he saw what existed of Natasha Yar's personal records. Per her request, he had access to all her personal effects, which included her family history. But the only thing he found was her first and last name, the year of her birth, and the Stardate of her death, which still was hard for Will to stomach. Her parents' names weren't listed, and a computer search turned up nothing.

He felt a pang of regret. As far as he knew, Tasha had been the lone survivor of her entire family. The others had been lost to assassins, cadres, nuclear war and rape gangs. Tasha had managed to survive the hell that Turkana became, only to die at the hands of Armus in the Vagra system.

* * *

**Anne Demianchuk's home, Unalaska, Alaska**

"—like I need to finish this for her," Will explained, somewhat at a loss to how to explain it to himself, let alone to his aunt. He was back at her house in the Aleutian Island community of Unalaska, sprawled in her living room in front of the fireplace. It was summertime in Alaska, and even though the sun shone round the clock at that time of year, temperatures still dipped at night. He was glad for the warm fire Anne had going when he dragged himself into the house, fresh off the evening shuttle from Anchorage—minus the urn that had held Tasha's ashes.

Within an hour, he was deep into researching Tasha's background, hoping he could find names to match the photos still on the _Enterprise._

"There's little here that you don't already know," Anne Demianchuk remarked. She sat next to her nephew, poring over Federation records. "Natasha Tarasovna Yar, no other family listed."

Will nodded toward the computer record. "She must not have known the names of her family," he said. "She was very young when they were killed, so that isn't surprising. I didn't know that was her middle name."

"It's a patronymic name," Anne said. "The ending of that name denotes that she was the daughter of someone named Taras. I'm assuming that was her father's first name. That's traditional in Slavic cultures, for a child to receive a name after her father."

Will attempted to query records for Taras Yar, but it wasn't listed anywhere in Federation archives. That wasn't unexpected, based on Turkana's relationship with the Federation. Since it was no longer a Federation colony—and not on good terms with the Federation—the system was under no obligation to share its records.

"I always figured that the Federation would retain records from former colonies," Anne remarked.

"It isn't always possible," Will replied. "When diplomatic relations break down or the planet's government itself disintegrates . . ." His voice trailed off and he began shaking his head, then had a sudden realization. "Wait a minute," he exclaimed, a slight smile breaking through his formerly intense expression. "I know who might have those records!"

* * *

**Kiev, Ukraine, the next evening**

Despite all his travels, Will Riker hadn't yet visited the Ukraine on Earth. It was halfway around the world, and already late afternoon when Will arrived. Though the shuttle hops took only one hour total from Unalaska to Vladivostok to Kiev, it was 11 hours ahead of Aleutian time. Will wasn't one to get time-lagged, but he knew he'd feel this one. He had to remind himself that the sun was setting, not rising.

He was pleasantly surprised, however, to see so much of Kiev's original culture had been preserved when he disembarked from the shuttle. While many cities across Earth had replaced aging or damaged structures since World War III, the city of Kiev elected to refurbish and preserve some of its original appearance.

Will was comfortable, even smiling at the familiarity of some of it: The onion domes of Orthodox churches stood in gentle contrast to the modern architecture rising from the city's main commerce center. Having grown up in Alaska amid Russian immigrants, he recognized the structures immediately. He'd been inside more than a few of them, usually on school tours to Cordova or Unalaska, where Russian influence still held strong.

Adherence to tradition also was part of the Ukrainian heritage, as was some element of rebellion against homogenized society. Strongly nationalistic even in an era where country 'borders' existed mostly on a map, many Ukrainians held fast to their hard-won identity. For centuries, the region had been dissected by despots and wars.

As interested as the Ukrainian people were in growth and a better society after the Post-Atomic Horror, they shared their Russian neighbor's hesitancy toward eradicating their language's written, Cyrillic alphabet in favor of the Standard letters . . . and the Ukraine went one further. Will found that the street and guide signs were in Ukrainian first (which Will couldn't read at all), then in Standard, deviating from the accepted norm of Standard first, dialect second.

Will was able to discern a Slavic language, but couldn't tell the difference between Ukrainian or Russian, let alone understand any of what he heard spoken around him. He'd only heard Tasha speak it several times, and only when she was having nightmares about Turkana.

He was relieved he'd brought a Universal translator with him, then smiled in relief when the shuttlebay commander responded back to him in perfect Standard. Will caught a shuttlecab to the north side of the city, where Rustam Ilienko was waiting at his home.

* * *

**In Rustam Ilienko's home, Vyshhorod, Ukraine**

Ilienko, a retired journalist once stationed on Turkana, had known Natasha Yar's family since before she was born. Tasha's parents also had been journalists, though they had found work mostly as cultural and linguistic translators for the foreign news service based at the Federation Embassy in Turkana City.

From what little Will Riker knew about Turkana's disintegration, the colony's government became gridlocked from elected officials and their special interests. The crime rate rose as cadre rule took over to provide a black-market conduit for goods, since government officials had squandered the largely defunct currency system. Turkana was so deeply in debt that many offworlders refused to do business officially, setting up the perfect storm for an economic revolution. The cadres joined forces, aligning mostly along political lines in an effort to force no-confidence votes to oust members of the government. Then cadre leaders realized they didn't need an election, and went for a coup, instead.

Though the Coalition and the Alliance (as both cadres were labeled) initially sought a dual-party ruling system in the early days after the government was overthrown. But the Coalition, which ruled territory that housed nuclear weapons intended to defend the colony against hostile offworlders, demanded more power. A series of violent skirmishes erupted over the next several days.

Like other Federation citizens, Ilienko was evacuated in the last hours of the ground-level conflict in Turkana City. But he never forgot the Yar family, and was relieved to learn that one of the Yar children had escaped the colony nine years later. Ilienko and his late wife Olena fostered Tasha for two years after she was rescued at the age of 15. Although they didn't bond as parental figures, they remained in her life as the only kind reminders of Turkana.

Shortly after Tasha arrived in Kiev, Ilienko had given her copies of photos he'd taken of her family before the colony's conflict. Even after all that had happened to Tasha since her family was killed, she still remembered the faces in those photos. But she'd only identified one by name to Will: That of her brother, Alek. Now Will was desperate to learn the names of others in the photos.

"I'd like to enter it into Earth Archives," Will said. "Even if her family was originally from Earth before they traveled to Turkana, there's no mention of her family on Earth archives. I'm hoping I can fill in those gaps."

Ilienko nodded. "History is invaluable, even if it seems of little relevance while it's happening," he said. "I downloaded Turkana's birth, marriage and death records shortly before I was evacuated from the planet. I knew they'd be destroyed, the way the cadres were wishing to rewrite history. Some of the information you're looking for should exist in these records, but it may take some searching. It's linked by lineage and by last names only, and not cross-referenced."

"Still, it's much more to go on," Will replied. "I feel like I owe her that."

"She cared a great deal about you," Ilienko added. "Her last communication to me indicated that. She said you'd taken on the role of a big brother to her, and I can't stress enough how highly she regarded you. She wasn't one to lightly toss out a compliment like that."

Will nodded, though he felt a twinge of unease arcing through his insides. He was nervous for some reason, though he couldn't say why. He had already expressed his condolences to Ilienko about the passing only one year earlier of Olena Ilienko, who had died only several weeks before Tasha Yar was killed.

Ilienko could tell Will was becoming uncomfortable, so he nodded once again to the computer, opting to stay on task.

"If you keyed in the names "Yar" or "Demianchuk", you will see the entire family line," Ilienko began, motioning toward the computer screen. "It's lined out in a flowchart format."

"Wait . . ." Will turned to look at Ilienko. "What was that name, again?"

"Yar."

"No, the other one," he said, his voice becoming animated.

"Demianchuk," Rustam replied. "That was Olesya's maiden name, Tasha's mother. Her father Taras Yar also was born on Turkana, and but his family w—."

Will stared at him. "Demianchuk was my mother's maiden name." He felt his face flushing, a rush of adrenaline sweeping through him.

Ilienko's eyebrows shot up. "Interesting," he remarked. "Was your mother Ukrainian?"

Will shook his head. "No, she was born in Alaska," he remarked. "Probably just a coincidence. My mother's family came to Alaska from Russia, but that was in the late 20th century, so it couldn't be the same family."

"Families are composed of multiple generations, merging at different times," Ilienko replied. "So, never say never. You should compare these records with those in your family."

"On that note, may I have a copy of records?" Will asked. "I don't know much about my family geneology, but my aunt does. If there's a connection, she'd be able to find it."

"I'm uploading a copy now for you. This record of Olesya Demianchuk's family reaches back to the 19th century," Ilienko said. "The earliest record we have of the family is from a community southwest of here called Ivano-Frankovsk."

Will smiled. "Tasha mentioned it," he said. "She told me she'd been there several times."

"She did," Ilienko replied. "I think looking for her history, mostly. But her present was more important to her. Her friends aboard the _Enterprise,_ you became her family."

* * *

**At Anne Demianchuk's home, Unalaska, Alaska, Earth**

Anne Demianchuk forced her feeling of numb surprise aside as she stepped into her den. Her nephew Will was napping on the couch, after from the Ukraine earlier in the day with a few names that he'd acquired from his search for the family of his dead colleague.

Intrigued by the connection between the Demianchuk names, Anne opened her family's database, and requested a cross-reference regarding a long-dead woman she'd never known, Olesya Demianchuk, who had been Natasha Yar's mother. _There might be a distant connection, if that,_ Anne had mused. _Maybe the name is more common than I thought it was._

Anne never expected the instant hit she received, and was so excited about it she opted to rouse her exhausted guest.

"Will, wake up," she said, nudging his shoulder as she knelt beside the couch. He blearily glanced at her, and knew instantly something either was very wrong, or very right. She looked excited, as if an answer to all of life's questions had been revealed to her and she couldn't wait to share it.

"What's going on?" Will asked.

"You need to see this," Anne said. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her expression as animated, as if a huge revelation had come over her. And it had. She handed him the notepad. "Your hunch was correct."

"What hunch?" Will was perplexed. He'd been awakened out of the first sound sleep he'd had in days, and in his relative delirium he truly had no idea what Anne could be blathering about. The last time she'd awakened him like that, it had been on his last shore leave, and she'd been hacked off at him because he hadn't taken out the compost. Now, she was waving a computer pad in front of his face.

He struggled to sit up, dug his fingers against his still-bleary eyes. Will forced himself to focus on the computer screen at what initially looked like a flowchart . . . no, it was a family tree. Within a few seconds, he froze, a jolt of adrenalin waking him instantly.

Everything made sense, now.

He looked up at Anne in response, unable to suppress the flush of comprehension washing over him as he read the computer-animation flowchart depicted on the notepad. His breath caught in his throat, and for an instant, he had no idea what to say, nor even where to start.

Anne said it for him, a smile breaking through her face. "You and Natasha Yar shared a great-great-grandfather, on the Demianchuk side of the family. You were third cousins."

* * *

"—in Alaska in the late 20th century," Will replied, his face still flushed even though his initial, jubilant shock had worn off. "I'm not arguing, I just don't understand how this was possible."

"It's undeniable," Anne replied, nodding again to the computer. "Once I had those records from Turkana that went back to 2280, it was all there. We already had this family's side of the information. We only needed that connection."

Will let out a deep breath he'd been holding. It all was too much to process.

Anne had another question for him. She never had been one to mince words. "Will, please tell me you didn't sleep with her," she said.

His head snapped toward Anne, shocked at her audacity. Even for Anne, that question was pushing it. "Oh, for God's sake—!" he exclaimed.

"I thought you didn't believe in God," she replied, quickly.

"Why the hell would you say that?"

"About Tasha, or about God?"

"About . . . either of them!" Will sputtered, indignant.

She stared at him, and her mouth fell open. "Did you really?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you sleep with your cousin, Will?"

"NO," he practically shouted. "Absolutely not!"

"We I thought I should ask, because you slept with everyone else," she came back.

"You just had to go there, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," she remarked. "Because deep down, you're thanking your lucky stars that this one got away."

"You are just like Tasha," Will said. "She'd have gone there, too. That's who she was. She pulled no punches."

"Must run in the family," Anne replied, a sly smile finally emerging.

Will let his arms fall to his sides, but looked back at her. "I guess so," he said, standing up and walking to the call console, unwilling to engage Anne further in this line of discussion. "What time is it in Kiev?"

"Probably too late to be making a call—," Anne started to say, but it was too late. She could see from the green light that the console already was ringing through. Within minutes, Will had arranged another meeting with Ilienko. He packed quickly, wanting to be on the first available shuttle.

* * *

Thanks for reading! One more chapter to go.

Ali


	19. Chapter 19

**_Well, y'all, this is it! Thanks so much for your patience, support and reviews. I'd been planning this ending since Chapter 5 of Future's Past (I know...took me awhile to get here). Anyway, y'all have been awesome. Happy trails!_**

**_Ali_**

* * *

**Future's Present, Chapter 19**

* * *

**At Rustam Ilienko's home in Vyshhorod, Ukraine, the next day**

"Thank you for receiving us at such short notice," Will said, stepping inside the door that Rustam Ilienko held open. "This is my aunt, Anne Demianchuk."

"Good morning," Ilienko said, extending his hand and shaking hers warmly. "It's always nice to meet a geneology expert."

Anne smiled humbly. "Oh, no, I just dabble in geneology," she replied. "My mother was the real expert. She saved all our family records, a lot of letters. She made things much easier for amateurs like myself."

"But you were knowledgeable enough to find this link between great-grandparents."

"Great-great grandparents," Anne corrected.

"See what I mean?" Ilienko laughed.

* * *

"The younger brother, Ivan Demianchuk, joined a new colony that had just been established in the Turkana system," Anne said, motioning with her hand toward the square on the computerized family tree that represented Ivan Demianchuk. "He left for Turkana in 2280. The older brother, Andrei Demianchuk, apparently didn't want to leave Earth, and that same year, Andrei moved to Alaska. He found work aboard a fishing boat, married, and had a son, Maxim, who was my grandfather."

Rustam, who had known both of Natasha Yar's parents and had access to that portion of her family records, filled in more demographic information for Will and Anne.

"Ivan Demianchuk married Polina Yurchenko on Turkana in 2281," Rustam said, nodding toward the Turkanan records he had saved. "They had four children, one of whom was named Anton, and Anton later married, and was the father of Olesya Antonovna Demianchuk. Olesya grew up and married Taras Nikolaievich Yar in 2333."

Ilienko continued scrolling up on the screen.

"Taras Yar's family . . . they pioneers in their own right," Ilienko added. "His family is listed here as one of the first to colonize what would become Turkana IV in 2264. His great-great-grandmother Zhenya Yar was a prominent research physician. News articles were published here when she joined the group hoping to form a new colony. I have them archived."

"Did Tasha ever know any of this?"

"I did tell her, but it was shortly after she arrived on Earth," he said. "She said she wasn't interested, but honestly, I believe she was overwhelmed by everything that had happened to her by the time she reached Earth.

"Anyway, Taras and Olesya worked with media services as interpreters," he continued. "So much is lost with universal translators, so I was lucky to be working with them. At that time, I was a new reporter, and got assigned the sector because I understood Ukrainian. And then I got here, and discovered that the language had altered into its own dialect. Turkanan is quite similar linguistically, but more direct, more clipped in pronunciation, more intense.

"There was a great deal of . . . how shall I saw it, anti-Federation fervor . . . building within Turkanan society, a great deal of pressure to split from the Federation," Rustam remembered. "Standard was becoming risky to speak there. So it was at increasing risk that Olesya and Taras both retained their Standard proficiency and worked for the foreign news service next to the Federation embassy."

"Their first child was Lyeksandro Tarasovich Yar," Rustam continued, nodding toward the computer screen again. "He was born at the end of 2334. He was called Alek by the family. And here, Natalia Tarasovna Yar, born in 2337."

Will's brow furrowed. "Natalia?"

"Her given name was Natalia," Rustam explained. "Natasha is a nickname."

"I didn't know that. Nothing in her records indicates that."

"She was always called Natasha, or Tasha or those variants," Rustam said. "When she arrived on Earth and learned her given name, she chose officially to change it to Natasha. The prospect of abandoning the only name she'd ever known was just too frightening for her, even for a new start. And here, in 2339, Taras was murdered by a member of the Coalition Cadre. He lived only two blocks from the embassy. He was walking to work one morning, in retaliation for his supposed Federation sympathies through his work as a translator."

Rustam sighed, shaking his head. "It was hardest on Alek. He witnessed his father's murder from their front yard. I don't think Tasha would have remembered it. She would have been 2 years old."

"She told me she didn't," Will said, recalling several conversations they'd had about their parents. "And that she didn't remember him, no matter how hard she tried to."

"I don't doubt that," Rustam said. "Tasha was so young when Taras was killed, probably for the best that she didn't remember when it happened. Olesya did what she could. She was a strong person, refused to view herself or her children as victims. She evidently found companionship later, but it didn't last long. Here in 2341, she had another daughter, listed as Ishara Glevovna Yar, which is interesting. Ishara had her own father's patronymic name, but Olesya hadn't remarried, so Ishara's family name remained Yar."

Rustam relaxed back in his chair, facing the computer screen, but he no longer saw what was written on them. His memories brought other visions.

"When the situation deteriorated to the point where it no longer was safe, I sent Olena and our children from Turkana City," Rustam recalled, trying to summarize the tension of those times, and the wrenching decision he made to remain behind on Turkana while his own family was evacuated. "They made it safely to the nearest Starbase, but only four days later, the government fell, and those of us remaining needed to leave. Everything happened so fast, like tens of thousands of dominos falling inward in a circle toward us. It seemed like half of the city was on fire, falling to the Alliance on one side and the Coalition on the other.

"As my family was being evacuated, I arranged for the evacuation of Olesya Yar and her three children," he continued. "But I wasn't allowed by Federation authorities to leave the embassy. It was too dangerous for a Federation citizen to be outside the gates, at that point. So Olesya, she told me to stay, that she would return in a few minutes, and then left the embassy to retrieve her children.

"While Olesya was working at the embassy, all three of her children stayed a few blocks away, with her mother, Lenya Deminanchuk," Rustam said, smiling at memories. "Lenya was . . . oh, she was a character. If you didn't find her in her garden, you'd find her in the church down the street. So, a very traditional baba in many respects . . . very devout, with a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. Tasha told me that the last thing she remembered of her grandmother was holding her hand as they were walking toward the church, and that everyone was heading to the church."

A chill darted through Will as he remembered what Tasha had told him about how her grandmother perished. He involuntarily drew a deep breath and let it out, realizing that Olesya likely had located her children as they were being led into the church at the end of the street. He tried to envision entire families seeking refuge there, believing the building and their lives would be spared from the violence on the street.

"What happened?" Anne asked, inquisitiveness overwhelming her. She didn't want to know, yet she needed to know. She was as interested as Will was, by then, to discover the fate of this segment of her family.

"Tasha told me that her grandmother and much of her family had gone into the church to seek shelter from all the fighting," Will said. "Apparently, one of the cadres attempted to take the church and those inside wouldn't give it. So, the cadre locked the doors, and set the church on fire. Tasha and her brother and sister came back to find the entire structure burning."

Will still could hear Tasha's voice describing what had happened. They'd been in their 21st century apartment, at a table in their makeshift kitchen, sitting and talking.

_And I got so upset, _Tasha had said._ I wanted to know where our grandmother was, and Alek said, 'she's inside the church', and I argued with him, 'Why would she be in the church if the building is on fire?' I didn't understand at the time what had happened. The cadres destroyed anything and murdered anyone who might defend old traditions. When they invaded our neighborhood, they moved everyone inside the church, locked the door and then set it on fire."_

"Lenya Demianchuk must have perished in the church," he said. "No wonder Olesya didn't make it back to the Embassy."

"She did make it back," Rustam said. "But the Federation troops at the Embassy gate wouldn't let her in. She was turned away at phaser-point because she and her children were Turkanan citizens. She begged, the children begged, I begged on the other side of security line, screaming and shouting, she's a journalist and she's with me, let them through, but to no result. It is unforgettable, horrible.

"The Evacuation Commander had ordered no Turkanan citizens be allowed through because so many shuttles were being shot down by the Coalition, and the shuttles remaining wouldn't be able to evacuate the Federation citizens remaining," he explained. "Both the Coalition and Alliance had deployed transporter interference, by then. I remember fighting with two officers who were dragging me to the shuttle. I don't remember the flight up. But I do remember being in the Starbase hangar when Olena told me they had detected the detonation of four nuclear warheads on Turkana.

"I will live with that moment until the day I die, that I couldn't get them out," he said. "It was the worst moment of my life. I knew that even if Olesya and her children could survive the nuclear detonations underground, Olesya would be doomed. People knew who she was. The only way to survive the cadres was to be anonymous, a nobody, a person who they thought they could mold into whomever they wanted her to be. Olesya was anything but that. Strong, opinionated, always had the last word. You always knew how she stood on things."

"Now I know where Tasha got her temperament," Will remarked.

"Her temperament, yes," Rustam replied. "But her temper . . . that was her father's. Her intensity was from Taras. He was thoughtful and generous with his time. He wanted to make sure people understood what was going on. But when he'd had enough of a situation, he wasn't afraid to let people know it. And he hated the cadres. He hated that Turkanan society got to the point where people relied on the black market to get anything. He had a good sense of what would happen, but didn't live to see it occur. He wasn't just murdered...he was silenced. It was a killing to silence things from getting out. His death was one of the first such killings that happened there. By the time we evacuated, they were killing everyone who spoke Standard, and it didn't matter if you were a Cadre loyalist or not."

Rustam glanced in the photo envelope again, and pulled out another snapshot, of the Ilienko family together. "Olesya took this of us, the morning of the evacuation," he said. "I wanted a photo of my family while I was still on Turkana, until we were together again. I still remember she was standing behind the camera, trying to get my children to smile for the photo. It remains my favorite family photo."

Ilienko looked up, his eyes intense. "How much did Natasha tell you about her life on Turkana after the revolution, after the Feds were evacuated?"

Will returned Ilienko's direct gaze. "Everything."

* * *

Ilienko had been unable to do much to help the Yar family. He had awakened on the Starbase with a sore chest from being on the business end of a phaser set on stun. One of the Federation security officers finally had to stun Ilienko when he became so combative that it wouldn't have been safe to continue the shuttle flight. They weren't willing to take that gamble.

Rustam Ilienko continued covering the forgotten Turkana conflict from the Starbase, though the Klingon and Romulan threats were considered more "newsworthy" than a human-inhabited planet that, within hours of a Federation evacuation, deployed nuclear weapons onto their own capitol city and drove survivors underground.

As years passed, Ilienko and his family ultimately returned to the Ukraine. But he maintained his contacts with the refugee network that had begun within one year of the nuclear detonation. Ilienko had watched the manifest lists of people who were smuggled off Turkana, hoping that Olesya Yar or her family had survived and would someday escape.

Nine years later, a Turkanan refugee named Natalia Tarasovna Yar was repatriated by the Federation as part of an undercover operation. Utilizing smugglers whom they knew would immediately hand over human cargo for 10 times the going rate for slave labor, Federation operatives ultimately rescued more than 245 people before the Coalition learned of the operation, and sabotaged several smuggling ships that attempted to get a cut of the profits.

Although he'd been unable to report directly from the planet, Ilienko had known that the situation on Turkana had gotten far worse, and had continued publishing accounts from those who felt lucky to have escaped. He was especially horrified to hear the Tasha recount the fates of her mother, older brother and grandmother, and what she'd needed to do to survive the cadres. Ilienko couldn't bring himself to write about Tasha.

"As if this universe isn't small enough, just before Tasha died, she learned of another connection aboard our own ship," Will said. "The ship that rescued her was captained by a smuggler whose son now serves as a security officer aboard the _Enterprise_. Saul Minnerly is a good officer."

"Do you think she still has relatives, here?" Anne asked.

Ilienko shook his head. "Other than the other brother, your ancestor who moved a century ago to Alaska, I located no other lineage. I did search through the city's archives, and I can trace the family back from that generation, but not forward until today. I hadn't known they'd all gone to Alaska."

"Is there any collective archive on paper, still?" Anne's curiosity was at its peak. Now she wanted to know as much as she could. It was as if she'd discovered a portion of her own past that she'd known nothing about. "I'd love to see some of the original documents."

"The largest records facility is in Kiev, and all those records have been converted to digital, and may be accessed by computer. But many records were lost in less stable times. Depending on where they lived, some people don't know much about their ancestry before the Post Atomic Horror. So many records were burned by survivors trying to keep warm."

"And for other reasons," Will muttered.

"Yes, and for other reasons," Ilienko responded, shaking his head sadly. "So, it's not so unusual, to not know."

* * *

Natasha Yar and her brother Alek looked strikingly alike, with the same, intense eyes and blond hair. Will and Anne both were moved by Rustam Ilienko's collection of photos he'd taken on Turkana, some of which depicted the Demianchuk and Yar families. There were photos of Ilienko's children playing streetball with several Turkanan children—one of whom Rustam identified as a Demianchuk cousin, maybe 10 years old, all gangly legs and long, blonde hair and a strong resemblance to Tasha and Alek.

"I wish I could remember her name," Rustam said. "She borrowed my smaller camera and took some of these pictures. And she had five younger brothers and sisters. I do remember that."

The photos included images of buildings that no longer existed, swept away by searing, nuclear winds; a mosaic-tile floor; someone's legs and bare feet—probably belonging to the photographer—standing in what appeared to be surf from the nearby beach. And there was a photo of an older women walking hand-in-hand with a small girl with tousled, blonde hair and downcast eyes.

"That was Natasha," Ilienko said, softly. "She was perhaps three, very close to her Baba Lenya. This would have been right about the time when her younger sister was born."

"Ishara," Will muttered.

"Yes," Ilienko replied.

"How much did she tell you about Ishara?"

"Enough to know how dangerous she became," Ilienko said.

As Will and Ilienko chatted over the photo, Anne was digging around in the purse she'd brought with her, allowing a small smile when she located her quarry amidst all the other junk in the bag.

"I have another photo for your collection," she said, holding a portable pad toward Ilienko. It was an older photo, not well-pixelated. The background was in better focus than the two, young men standing side-by-side in the photo. It was the last existing photo of the original Demianchuk brothers, taken in 2280 when the eldest brother—Tasha's great-grandfather—was 22, and the younger brother—Will's great-grandfather—was 19.

"Oh, my goodness . . ." Ilienko said. "The original family."

"I have other photos," Anne said, her expression more animated. "If you scroll through, there are others that look like they were taken here in the Ukraine, but I don't know where and I have no idea who these people were. There was writing on the backs of some of the paper copies, but it's in Ukrainian and I can't read it."

"Now _that_ I can help with," Ilienko replied.

* * *

**Anne Demianchuk's home in Unalaska, Alaska**

After she and Will arrived back at her Unalaska home, Anne was so exhausted that she fell back into her bed within 15 minutes of walking into the house. But Will, still driven by a desire to know more about the Demianchuk family, began reading some of what Rustam Ilienko had published about the colony. Ilienko had filed news reports in the years before and during the revolution, and published a memoir about Turkana a few years after he and his family arrived back on Earth, defeated and anguished over their forced evacuation.

Will downloaded the memoir and began reading it almost immediately:

_There was life and livelihood, and Turkana was peaceful, even as the elders began passing of age and debility, _Rustam had written._ The oldest graves on Turkana are the only ones that still exist. They bear shadows of the nuclear holocaust that occurred two generations later, but even today, the inscriptions still can be read. They were laid to rest, while their grandchildren were left to rot._

_What kind of fate befell Turkana IV? A shroud descended on this place and clung like an oily film that never really rinses away, even with tears of those who managed to survive. This utopia built from centuries of tradition, where religious faith, a strong pull toward cultural identity and family still was not enough to keep it together. Apathy and disintegrating values shook its foundation; revolution tore it asunder; sucker-punch nuclear strikes finished the job and those left alive crawled beneath the devastation in catacombs beneath, like cockroaches awaiting a new, evolutionary dawn._

_Perhaps it was that higher power, putting good people into a bad situation, to see what would happen. I believed that for a long time, that enough time had passed since the days of Nazis so a new cruelty had arisen. Now another regime dawned, only we did not know this at the time. Somewhere existed a force we didn't know about, a sick fate that wanted to see how long Turkana would exist before anarchy occurred, and what would happen to us after that?_

_The survivors of Turkana's apocalypse could be called the lucky ones, but truly I believe that they existed in a purgatory of sorts. The most fortunate were the souls that perished in those days of the Revolution, and in the nuclear annihilation that followed. My foster children agree with this. They emerged so scarred that I suspect they are enjoying their lives today, though never will allow themselves to grow too comfortable. They have seen what happens to a society that grows too soft to see dangers lurking beneath the surface. _

* * *

Also among Ilienko's files were a few items written by Natasha Yar while she was being fostered by the Ilienko family in Kiev. Will put one through the Universal Translator.

**From Natasha Yar's personal journal, dated 2352, originally written in Ukrainian:**

_I don't want to remember Turkana. Thinking brings no closure. For me, only anger builds. It accumulates when I'm reminded of all that happened. I would rather look forward but I fear that also. So, the choice: Do I move forward and allow my family history to be lost, or do I live in the past so my family won't be forgotten? What would they want me to do?_

_I survived for a reason, but I don't understand why. I don't know why I am alive, and why so many who were wise and kind perished. I have no answers._

* * *

_**USS Enterprise**_**, three days later**

"I knew there was something about Tasha," Will remarked softly, pacing beside Deanna in his cabin. He'd just returned from Earth, and hadn't even unpacked his small suitcase before he'd summoned Deanna. It was 0430 hours, but he didn't care. He'd traveled so much between Alaska and the Ukraine—and then on the 8-hour shuttle mission to rendezvous with the _Enterprise_. He no longer knew what time it was, and no longer cared.

Deanna arrived, bleary-eyed but already sensing that he had something important, invigorating, to tell her. He almost couldn't speak fast enough as he told her everything, stumbling at times over the enormity of it.

"I couldn't place it," he continued. "There was this familiar, deja-vu connection even though we'd never met before we served aboard the _Enterprise_."

Even on his worst days, Will couldn't bring himself to remove the Kansas City-related items from his cabin, nor the actual, paper photo he had framed of him and Tasha, snapped on Earth in the 21st century. They weren't there as Starfleet officers, but instead were two friends on the edge of the street for a victory parade. It wasn't the only photo he had of them together, but it was his favorite.

He reached toward the framed photo, took it off the wall, sat on the nearby couch while holding the picture in his hands.

"It must have been fate," he remarked, a statement she wasn't quite prepared to hear. The Will Riker she knew didn't really believe in fate. _He's searching for answers he may never find,_ she thought.

"Sometimes there are no reasons," Deanna replied, "Sometimes things just happen without an ulterior motive, and since hindsight is always 20/20, it seems as it if were all ordained."

He shrugged. "I miss her," he admitted. "So much time has passed, I shouldn't be feeling this way. Even though I've discovered that we were related, it still seems unhealthy that I'm still having problems moving on."

She slipped her arm through his. "It's not about moving on," she said. "It's about moving through the difficult moments. Moving on implies that you are leaving her behind. She'll always be a part of you. After all, she was family."

Finally, he smiled. "Yeah, she was," he said.

"Is that a surprise or a relief?"

"Both."

* * *

**Will Riker's personal log, 2365, filed shortly after arriving back aboard the _USS Enterprise_**

_I still don't know why. I suppose I'll never know, just as Tasha probably never knew our familial connection, or the very diverse family, rich in history and experience, we were from._

_As I was traveling back to the Enterprise, I wondered what kind of fate brought us together in such an uncanny way, stranding us together so we'd be forced to get to know each other. I never was a religious or spiritual person. I know our ancestors were, and I suspect Tasha was before she experienced too much. But I have wondered a lot, recently, have actually thought about whether the souls of our deceased relatives somehow had something to do with our being stranded in time together . . . even if it was in Kansas City, a location to which we had no prior connection. I keep looking for reasons, even if those reasons make no sense, at all.  
_

_Picard has explained our time warp as a temporal displacement, an anomaly that just happened to strike when Lt. Kendall's holodeck program was in place. Dumb luck, he said, that we were plopped in the middle of a separate culture. But I think I caught a hint of a smile, recognition of something deeper, when I told him today what I'd learned about the familial connection between Tasha and I. Beverly Crusher just notified me minutes ago that my DNA and Tasha's DNA is a positive match: We shared 6.27 percent of our genetic makeup, which correlates with what would be expected from relatives separated by four generations.  
_

_I wouldn't trade it for anything. My biggest regret is that Tasha wasn't alive to learn this. But I wonder now if we'd ever have known. There was no reason to have compared our DNA, other than a nagging feeling that we both had, when we realized that physical intimacy just wasn't right. Neither of us could explain it, and it wasn't that we weren't interested. We just knew for some reason that it wouldn't have been right._

_If Tasha hadn't died, I wouldn't have brought her back to Earth. I probably wouldn't have met Rustam Ilienko, and I wouldn't have learned of the familial connections. Most likely, our DNA would never have been compared, and the match would never have been discovered._

_I miss her terribly. Even today, more than a year after Tasha's death, I still miss her. Deanna told me that in some ways, I'll always feel an emptiness in my heart and soul. Deanna tends to be right about these things. But it's more than emptiness. . .it's a black hole. I can either exist in a perpetual sense of regret and allow it to swallow me whole, or I can be grateful for 22 months spent out of time, when it was just Will and Tasha trying to make sense of something we weren't even close to being able to understand at the time. _

_Deanna asked me once what I would say to Tasha if I had five more minutes with her. I'm not sure I'd know where to start. But the funny thing is, I can almost hear her response to learning we were distant cousins. I've often imagined how she would have reacted if she knew we were related. In all my musings, her response was always the same:_

"_Third cousins? Really?" she would have said, and I'm certain she would have been smiling, maybe would have jostled me playfully. "Now you're stuck with me for life, Will."_

* * *

**Two days earlier, in Anchorage, Alaska, on Earth**

Will Riker had done one more thing before he departed Earth to rejoin the _USS Enterprise _after his shore leave. He and his aunt traveled to Anchorage to amend Will's mother's official death record to include the existence of Will's unborn sibling. While Will had been surprised to learn that his mother was pregnant at the time of her death, he was incensed to learn that her pregnancy was not noted in the fatality report.

Anne Demianchuk had located medical and autopsy records confirming that her sister Elizabeth Riker was, indeed, pregnant at the time of her death. She had been carrying a female fetus, approximately 20 weeks gestation. The fetus It was recorded to have expired in utero due to hypoxia, secondary to maternal death in the fiery crash that occurred just north of Anchorage on July 5, 2337.

In 2365, official records at the Alaska Birth and Death Register and the Alaska Ground Transit Authority were amended to include a second fatality in the accident that claimed the life of Will's mother nearly 28 years earlier. Also listed as perishing in the crash was Elizabeth Riker's unborn daughter, now named Natasha Demianchuk Riker.

* * *

END

If any genetics experts are reading...I hope I hit the DNA percentage correctly for third cousins/sharing a great-grandfather. Genetics wasn't my strongest subject in school...if it's inaccurate, please let me know and I'll update.

Thanks for reading, everyone!

All the best—

Ali


End file.
